


love, comradery, and other futile endeavors

by wyvernknighted



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rated for Violence and Gore, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernknighted/pseuds/wyvernknighted
Summary: In their final battle against Grima, Laurent dies and leaves Gerome grief-stricken. When he later stumbles upon a mysterious artifact, he's returned to that same battle with no memory of what's to pass. Now caught in a time loop, Gerome stands against fate to pull himself and Laurent through their final battle together.
Relationships: Gerome/Loran | Laurent, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	1. echoes

**Author's Note:**

> posting on Gerome's birthday! I couldn't think of a specific birthday fic, but I've been working on this timeloop fic for a while and I figured it would be a decent alternative. Sorry in advance, it starts off very heavy on the angst. Also this has spoilers for the last chapter/map of the game, as well as the ending.
> 
> I plan to update this every other week on Tuesdays, so look forward to that!
> 
> Content warnings: grief, gore, canon-typical violence, (impermanent) major character death(s)
> 
> background pairings: Miriel/Frederick, Virion/Cherche, F!Robin/Chrom

After the battle, Gerome was silent. Minerva landed lightly, careful to not jostle him. He told her to get some fresh air while he gathered his things. At the curious tilt of her head, he lied about his intent to bid the others farewell and Minerva nipped his fingers at the deception. Regardless, she lifted off with a huff. The air from her wings chilled him in the already cold night. He resisted the urge to fold his arms together for warmth, instead turning towards camp. He saw figures walking the road to its heart, some limping together in pairs. A deep bitterness swelled in his core at the sight. He took the long way around to his quarters.

Unfortunately, he was not able to avoid people entirely. There were small groups of his comrades throughout the barracks. Many were talking with a hushed excitement. As he neared the residential side of camp, he noticed that the buzz of excited chatter faded abruptly. Following the gaze of others, he soon understood. From where he stood, he could see into the open flap of the strategy tent. Chrom sat at the war table by himself, staring into the distance. He held one of the carved wooden tokens that Robin had made for tactics presentations. Gerome felt a rush of bitter empathy at the sight.

He was glad not to be the person who told Miriel and Frederick that their son was dead. That task was Lucina’s by her own volition. Gerome surely wasn’t going to compete for such a horrible charge. Instead, he strode by the gasp of Miriel’s voice and Frederick’s stifled sob. He ignored how couples tended to hold on to each other when met with bad news, as if by clinging to one another they could hold together the pieces of a shattered life. He chose not to think about how he now lacked any other person who could truly understand what he was feeling. Instead, he continued through the barracks, heading directly to his quarters. It took him a little under ten minutes to gather everything he owned. As he turned to depart and reunite with Minerva, he lingered.

The tent opposite his was open. He could see the stacks of worn books, meticulous notes and paperwork. Some still shined with Laurent’s handwriting in ink that was only just dry.

He walked to the opening in the canvas. At the threshold, he held his breath for a few moments. Despite the paranoia he felt, no one called out to him or yelled for him to stop. He stepped in and nothing of the world shifted. Perhaps that was the worst part. It was awfully mundane, the loss and the logistics after. He had thought that by entering Laurent’s tent, perhaps the mage would step out from behind his desk and apologize for the trouble. An acrid bile seared in his throat as he was lost in thought, standing before the organized clutter of Laurent’s desk and wishing that there was some mistake. He exhaled unsteadily, placing his hand on the desk’s rough wooden edge to calm himself. Now that he was here, Gerome was filled with nostalgia. Many times, he had sat beside Laurent in this place. He could easily imagine him, head bowed over some document or report, his quill scratching animatedly along the page.

There were trinkets scattered across the tent, most balanced along the desk’s upper edge. Each bore with it a reminder that Laurent had existed. He seemed to have had a fondness for small, seemingly useless items. It was a quirk of his to gather things. A dove carved from stone perched on the outer edge of the desk, shielded by a large tome. A nearby leather bracelet lay on his bed stand, perhaps a gift? A paper weight shaped like a cat sat upon an unruly stack of paper. The sigil of the exalt, seared into a thin metal disc, was propped up between the edge of the desk and the tent wall. It caught the light of candles left slowly burning. Gerome snuffed out the gentle flames, pointedly not thinking about the symbolism of such an act. 

He chose to focus instead on one of the more odd figurines – an owl of carved wood with impossibly large eyes. This was one of the trinkets he had noticed Laurent glancing at fondly in the past. He remembered asking Laurent once about his collection.

“Ah,” Laurent had said, a look of embarrassment crossing his face. “I entertain certain compulsions for comfort. This particular habit seems to make my quarters feel more salubrious. And well, I consider them oddly charming.”

It was a simple response that had rang true at the time. Laurent’s office was a small tent that doubled as his living quarters. His cot was pushed against the wall of canvas, surrounded by stacks of books and paper. He lacked most furniture, instead using old supply crates to hold his clothes and his most valuable items. His desk was composed of two sturdy fruit crates pushed together with a plank of wood set on top. It was sparse to say the least.

Even back then, he was surprised that Laurent had kept things around without a scrupulous reason. Yet upon recalling that memory, Gerome realized that there had been a deeper purpose, though unspoken. Laurent had been gathering them with the intent to place them somewhere later. He collected in the hopes of one day having a home peaceful enough to house such frivolous decorations. The thought made his chest tighten. For the first time since Laurent fell in battle, he truly felt the loss. Like a crack splitting through glass, each razor sharp realization cut into him without mercy. Days ahead, he could no longer expect their usual meetings. He would not see him around the barracks or on the battlefield. Laurent would not scurry through camp with his clipboard and his quill. His steady, sure voice was now forever dormant. The war may be over, but what did it matter now that he had lost his combat partner? Now that he had lost his closest friend? And before he could even –

Gerome inhaled shakily, realizing he stumbled upon the edge of a thought that would break him. He stopped thinking entirely. He would not be able to tackle the tangled mess that was his heart anytime soon. Instead, he slumped in the seat behind Laurent’s desk and buried his head in his hands. His mask slipped off and he let it, knowing that it would only be soaked with tears if he kept it on. He allowed himself to sob quietly. It did not quell the pain in his heart but in time he grew tired. Exhaustion was the greatest relief he could hope for because it meant he could eventually escape his grief in sleep. He hoped his ensuing rest would be dreamless.

Gerome sat there for some time, his hands trembling. Lingering obviously was not going to do him any good. He peeled his hands away from his face and replaced them with his mask.

In his distress he had knocked over a small wooden box. The clasp came undone and it now lay on its side, upended and open. A single stone, green and shaped like a tear drop, had tumbled from its container. Gerome picked it up gently. The stone was cool to the touch and smooth. As he held it, he felt somewhat assuaged. Its crystalline structure reflected light in pleasant fragments. The color reminded him of the blue-green flashes of Laurent’s wind magic. He slid it into his pocket and left before he could overthink it.

He departed without saying a word to anyone. There was no one left for him to want to bid goodbye to. Each person he saw brought a rush of acrimony crashing into his chest. He knew that he blamed the shepherds for it, in part. He knew the person he blamed the most was himself, however, and the ambivalence intensified his feelings. He hung his head low and flinched from the eyes of others. Climbing up a nearby incline, he was relieved to finally be alone. In the silence, he pulled the stone from his pocket and examined it while waiting for Minerva to return. Fortunately, she didn’t make him wait long and he soon slid the jewel back into his pocket to join her. His time with the shepherds ended unceremoniously as he departed by air. A fitting end, he thought.

As they flew, he finally allowed himself to relax. He would return to Wyvern Valley to live out his days secluded from humanity. Such a fate was the only one bearable enough to pursue. As he was deep in thought, a rough gust of wind shook Minerva’s balance.

He was jostled from Minerva’s back, unseated for a few moments. In the corner of his vision, he saw a fleck of light. He snapped around, seeing the stone fly from his pocket in a wide arc. Something in him tightened as he realized he would lose the last thing that connected him to Laurent. He did not hesitate to leap from Minerva’s back and reach after it. His fingers clasped over the stone, masking the green light that had just begun to shine from its core.

* * *

He blinked and he was standing on Grima’s back. Clouds of black swirled above, spurred on by buffeting winds which tested his ability to stand firm. Laurent was beside him.

Something felt off. His head spun for a moment and he found himself gripping the handle of his axe to steel himself. A dreadful feeling pooled in his chest, weighing on his heart. But he couldn’t remember why he felt that way.

“Gerome?” Laurent had just asked him something he had missed.

“What?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Aren’t you going to mount Minerva?”

Gerome pressed his knuckles into his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Something was definitely wrong but he couldn’t articulate it. Instead, he just nodded at Laurent and started walking towards Minerva. Perhaps it was inertia from their location. Naga’s teleportation was surely not something he was used to.

“Wait, Gerome,” Laurent wrapped his hand around his upper arm, holding him back for just a moment. Gerome did not flinch from his touch because, between the two of them, it was not unknown. After months as training partners, they had crossed that boundary long ago. Yet in this moment, he felt a shock from Laurent’s grip, as if it were the last thing he expected. “Are you truly alright?”

Gerome sighed. “I think it’s just nerves.” He gave him a neutral look which seemed to put Laurent at ease. “Don’t worry about it. Focus on the battle ahead.”

Laurent squeezed his arm and let go. “Of course. With you by my side, there is nothing to fear.”

Gerome wanted to believe him, but his words sat like hot coals of doubt on his mind. Would he be able to survive this battle? Could fate really change? Some part of it hinged on his ability to swing an axe and dodge enemy blows, so he hurried to his mount and pushed such concerns to the edges of his mind. He would need focus and the southern troops were fast advancing to their position. He glanced one last time at Laurent before taking flight.

It was not the first few waves of troops that were difficult. Around the fifth appearance of reinforcements, however, Gerome could feel his muscles aching. He had only sustained light wounds so far but the exertion of mounted combat was needling into his bones. He swung his axe downward, finishing the motion with a groan as he fell yet another Grimleal berserker. Considering that their troops were not stopping any time soon, he didn’t bother to flick the blood from his blade.

Instead, he decided to fall back to check on Laurent. A distant worry nagged in the back of his mind. He found himself glancing in Laurent’s direction more often than not, concerned that he would simply disappear. It was the same anxious dread that he felt immediately after their arrival. No matter how many troops they fought off, he couldn’t shake it. He guided Minerva to circle down towards Laurent.

“Are you alright?” He shouted over the roar of blasting wind.

Laurent waved affirmatively. He had only taken minor damage from a prior magical attack. For the time being, they were outspeeding and outwitting the enemy units. But speed and wit could only last for so long and it seemed the battle at the head of the fell dragon was not ending any time soon.

The ground moved beneath Minerva’s beating wings. He watched as Grima shifted, twisting his spine to curl upwards. They were continuing to ascend. Laurent staggered at the change in terrain but he promptly regained his balance. The mage signaled his wellbeing to Gerome with a wave and that eased his nerves a bit.

Gerome resumed his position on the front line of their southern position. He knew Laurent was steadfast behind him, bolstering his defenses with blasts of magic. He had learned months ago to trust Laurent’s aim, to know that he would always cast his spells around him and Minerva. Relying on Laurent’s support, he focused his own strikes on the infantry before him.

He angled his axe downward, then slammed it up to disarm a war monk. His next move was to swing forward, knowing that Minerva would carry him to victory. Then he fell back, assessed the next target, and rushed forward in the same cyclical process. It was exhausting work but he was determined to keep pushing. He felt for the first time that this future Laurent spoke of, that Lucina fought for, that Chrom and Robin promised, was just within their reach.

He grew so focused on the battle ahead, he did not notice the paladin who slipped past his blade. It wasn’t until he heard a strangled cry behind him that his attention was drawn from the challenge before him.

As soon as he saw the lance shine before plunging into Laurent’s gut, he broke away. But he was too late. The paladin moved with an inhuman celerity, swinging Laurent from their blade with a callous swipe. The mage groaned as his wound opened anew, but he could not catch his breath to scream before the blade flew again, this time to ensure silence.

Gerome swung his axe into the paladin’s back, knocking them off balance. He made sure to heft the blow so they would slide off of Grima’s back. Like a nightmare dissipating in the morning hours they slipped away. But Laurent was still prone, clutching his throat with an unsteady cough. His exhalation ended in a strained gurgle which turned Gerome’s stomach. He jumped from Minerva’s back, landing roughly. He didn’t waver though, running to Laurent’s side with a mindless desperation. Laurent looked up at him, attempting a smile though each muscle in his face was taut with pain.

“G..ger-”

“Please, I beg of you don’t speak.” Gerome’s voice did not sound like his own. It was strangled, with all of the despair of an animal snared in the jaws of fateful predation. Gerome felt like he was watching himself at a distance as he collapsed by Laurent’s side. He softly touched Laurent’s hands. His leather gloves were slick with blood as it poured from his wound. They stained his own trembling hands and he realized that he was shaking all over. In that moment, Gerome was powerless to help. And before he could even think to call for a cleric or leave Laurent with a single comforting word, the mage’s face slackened with a gasp. His grip fell away to reveal the hole in his neck where his life had drained away too quickly. And Gerome was frozen, arms wrapped around the corpse that was once his closest friend.

* * *

“Hey.” He felt a hand touch his bicep and he jerked away. The only person who had been allowed that level of intimacy with him had just died. He swung around, wrath clear on his face. Upon seeing Lucina’s resigned expression though, he faltered.

“Hey.” His eyes dropped to the ground.

“I wanted to say, I’m sorry about what happened.” She clenched her fist, fingers shaking slightly from the force of it. “We should have given you more support on the back lines. We should –”

“There is no point in saying what we should have done.” He interrupted. “What’s done is done.”

She sighed heavily. “Will you be alright?”

“I’m leaving.” He shrugged, his voice a dead, emotionless thing. “There’s nothing left for me here.” He saw how those words impacted her, how she stopped herself from replying even though it was clear she wanted to. The hesitation almost made him feel affection for her. Whatever stirred in his chest was something warped and twisted. Any emotion he felt first passed through a layer of shock, then another of grief before he could truly process it. Whatever joy he would have felt over victory had soured the moment that Laurent went forever still.

He turned from her abruptly, not bothering to say anything else. She let him go.

He packed his belongings. He halted outside of Laurent’s tent. He lingered, feeling familiar in the wallowing. He still couldn’t place it.

Tears filled his eyes when he saw the same reminders of Laurent’s short life. He collapsed in the chair. He cried. The stone tumbled from its case and he picked it up curiously.

When it fell from his pocket in a brash gust of wind, he leapt from Minerva’s back with hands outstretched.

* * *

He was standing in their final battle. Above, dark purple clouds spun and twisted in grostesque patterns. Beside him Laurent stood. He was holding his hand but he didn’t know why.

“Gerome?”

“Hm?”

“Is there a reason why you reached out for me?”

“Oh, um,” Gerome genuinely did not remember. “I was just nervous.”

“I see.” Laurent looked unsettled but not upset. His face almost looked red, as if he were blushing. It was difficult to confirm in the dim, shifting light. If this were any context except for their final battle against the fell dragon, Gerome would have risked a question. But instead, he dropped his grip and tried not to lament the absence of Laurent’s touch.

“Stay close to me.” Gerome found himself saying. He wasn’t sure why but a gathering dread in his gut left him anxious. “I don’t want anything to happen.”

“Of course.” Laurent smiled. “I will battle beneath your position then?”

“Please.” His voice was strangely desperate. He couldn’t explain the panic rising in his chest but he was on high alert. He felt oddly protective over Laurent, more so than usual.

It must be the place. Battling from the literal back of their opponent was going to be difficult. He reflected on the irony of their final stand on the back of a dragon for him, who normally always engaged in combat from Minerva’s back. But there was little time to waste and he lingered in thought for only a moment more. His gaze settled on Laurent and he pushed down the worry in his gut. There was no use in dwelling on it. Concerning himself with emotion would not do him any favors on the battlefield.

Several waves of enemies in, he noticed that the usual flashes of Laurent’s magic had vanished. Instead, darkness rose around them in the form of an enemy swarm. He dismounted only to see Laurent drop from the sword of a Grimleal knight, a yawning cavity in his chest staining his robes crimson.

He began to run toward him when he felt a blunt edge breach the middle of his right shoulder. It tore through his flesh in a vicious motion, propelling him forward. He dropped, pain overwhelming any attempt at thought. Struggling, he managed to level his gaze at Laurent, who, meters away, had already grown completely still.

* * *

Gerome blinked a few times. His hand flew to his shoulder which radiated with an odd phantom pain. The sudden ache brought with it a rush of adrenaline and his heart pounded loudly in his ears. He took a shaky breath before finally noticing Laurent, who had obviously asked him something.

“Did you hear me?” Laurent cocked his head.

“No, I –” He flexed his arm to work the ache. “I was distracted. Could you repeat that?”

“I said, I think we should spread out—”

“Certainly not.” Gerome said firmly.

“And why not?” Laurent crossed his arms. “We are most assuredly going to take the brunt of enemy forces in this position. Spreading out will give us the space to observe and predict enemy movements. We need to be able to handle their strategy with flexibility.”

“I…” Gerome sighed harshly. “It’s hard to explain. I feel that being away from you is risky. There’s…” He squeezed the handle of his axe to still the tremors in his hand. “I have this intuition, an instinct perhaps. Something will go wrong if we are apart. It feels that way at least.”

Laurent regarded him for a moment before acquiescing the point. “We will stay close then?”

“Yes. I would appreciate that.”

This time, it was an axe that felled him. Gerome flew to him with Minerva’s strength but that was not enough.

The next time Laurent died by lance. It was his rising scream that brought Gerome’s gaze to the sight. A line of silver dipped red, flinging Laurent’s limp body from Grima’s back as if he were a broken, worthless thing.

The time following, it was a well-aimed spell. Mire, from a Sorcerer that Gerome had somehow missed. The purple light of the spell left dark violet trails along his arms. He seemed to blend in with the landscape, a hopeless writhing mass of clouds that Gerome continued to lose himself in, to lose Laurent in.

He blinked and Laurent was beside him with a stricken look.

“What?”

Laurent neared him, the dip of his brow deepening as he examined his face. He gently traced his finger along Gerome’s cheek. Gerome registered the sting of tears in his eyes and frowned.

“Why are you crying?” Laurent was much closer than he was used to. But everything around them shifted. Beneath them, Grima’s back rose and fell with an unsettling rhythm. The clouds above contorted into shadowy patterns. This environment glared with hostility from all directions. He reasoned that this proximity was a result of the discomfort such conditions invoked.

“I…I’m not sure.” He swatted the wetness away, hoping that Laurent wouldn’t discern how embarrassed he was. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I think my eyes are watering up from exhaustion.” But Gerome knew that his heart was not full of fatigue. Instead, he was inundated with sorrow. The tears in his eyes were born from an agony that he felt in his bones, yet did not have a reason for. It went further than dread. It was the gaping void of loss, the kind of grief that buckles even the most steadfast of hearts. He had lost something essential, he was sure of it. But he could not place the source. 

“Very well then.” Laurent dropped the point but his expression remained troubled. “I propose that we spread out our battle formation to handle incoming troops.”

Something in Laurent’s voice dissuaded Gerome from arguing with him. _Alright,_ he thought. _We’ll try it your way._ He did not wonder what his way would have been or what those words implied. He climbed atop Minerva’s back and brandished his axe at the incoming troops.

That time, Laurent died in less than fifteen minutes.

* * *

Gerome woke up prone only once. He lay upon smooth ground for just a moment before jumping awake. Terror clutched his heart once again, never allowing him true rest so long as he was conscious. He let out a harsh breath as he remembered the blade tearing into his thigh.

“It seems you are awake now.” An eerie voice like none he had ever heard before called from behind him. He spun to face her and realized he sat at the foot of Naga’s altar. She was seated above him, her long green hair shimmering with a transient light. The room glowed with an otherworldly blue radiance. Though unfamiliar, he now recognized it as the temple of Naga. They had recently passed through before the final confrontation with –

He struggled to finish the thought. Could he really not remember their last battle? He rubbed his temple, trying to summon the memory. Yet, none came.

“You are troubled.” Gerome did not mistake the worried edge in Naga’s voice. He glanced back at her, reminding himself of the present.

“I am confused.” He admitted roughly. “I can’t remember the last battle I have fought.”

“That is not surprising. You have not had a moment of rest for some time now.” Naga said as if it was something he should already know.

“I do not understand.” Gerome looked at her imploringly. “What am I missing?”

Naga sighed before rising from her seat. “It seems your memory is worsening with each repetition, though the sensations do not leave you. You must be confused indeed.” She began walking towards him, hands uniting before her. Her face was serene, yet it bore concern.

“Repetitions? What do you mean by that?”

“Peace, young one.” She was close to him now, towering over him. She touched her fingertips to his forehead. They immediately soothed him. “Please, remember.”

The memories flooded through his mind in chaotic frenzy. He felt rather than saw each moment, as if they happened simultaneously. The first time Laurent died, then the next, and with each successive death he continued to bear witness, to play the useless comrade left to grieve. In some moments, he died alongside Laurent. They were comforting in some ways because the loop reset sooner, allowing him to skip the hours following the battle when he was left to process that loss. Those times when he survived were the worst, as he cried in Laurent’s tent and tried to imagine a world in which he was forever absent. He remembered each manner of weapon that killed Laurent, just how many shades he could bleed, the different pitches of his dying breath exhaling into silence. When he finally regained himself, though his skull still pounded with the memories of countless battles, he was kneeled over the floor clutching his head.

His heart was racing from the repeated sensations—hope, fear, and then despair more extreme than any other emotion. He reeled from the depth of his grief, incredulous that he had been able to experience it more than once. And yet, each memory followed that pattern, and his heart was worn away by the cycles of love and loss grinding into him. A distant groaning noise sounded and he realized it came from his chest. He was panting from the exertion of it all.

“Do you understand?” Naga had not moved from her position above him.

Gerome took a few moments to calm his breathing. He slowly sat up and tried to assemble a neutral expression to face her with. He blinked quickly as he noticed the wetness from his eyes. Before he could conceal it, she leaned down and cupped his cheek with her hand.

“You do not have to hide your tears. I know of your suffering many times over.” Her voice was disconsolate. “Do you know why this is happening?”

“T-the stone?”

She nodded. “Yes. What you had leapt out to save was a crystalized tear of my own making. It was many thousands of years ago that I shed such tears. But each is imbued with my influence, and to those deemed worthy it grants a desire of the heart. When you dove to catch it, it recognized you as worthy and sought to grant your wish.”

Gerome remembered the thought that crossed his mind as the stone fell from his sight. _I can’t lose him again._

He exhaled sharply in understanding. “So we’re trapped now?”

"Not trapped exactly." Naga clarified. "I can break the cycle should you wish. But that does not seem to be your desire. Am I wrong?"

"I want him to live." Gerome said roughly. "But fate will continue to take him from me each time."

“It seems that his death was fated to pass.” Naga lowered her head dispiritedly. “But the future is not set. There is enough ambiguity to reset time in that moment. If this were not true, we would not have been able to make it this far.”

Gerome hesitated. “Why are you helping me?”

Naga’s reply was gentle. “You and others from your time have bore so much agony, and so deeply, for all of your short lives. Most of you have never known a moment of rest without the fear of a cursed future. I sent you back in time to reclaim that which was yours – another chance at peace. It saddens me deeply that one amongst your ranks has been slated to die. So, after the first few repetitions, I continued to help. To see if there was something we could change.”

Gerome scoffed. “There is no hope for change, obviously. How much longer must I watch him die?”

“But what if he can live? Would that not be the ideal outcome?”

“What is so different this time?”

“This time,” she said so delicately, it was barely a whisper. “You will remember.”


	2. resounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He almost groaned at the sight of the dark purple clouds above. The wind tore at his face, still raw from shedding tears over Laurent’s corpse moments prior. His chest ached and he could not tell if it was from the wound or the grief. When he turned and saw his partner’s look of concern, he could no longer keep up the charade.

Gerome blinked and he was beside Laurent again.

This time, he knew that his companion had just asked him of their strategy. This time he knew that if Laurent was far away from him, he would certainly die. Having him fight beneath his position also failed most times. The closer he was while still in Gerome’s sight line, the greater his chance of survival.

“Hello?” Laurent was shaking his shoulder gently. “Gerome, we haven’t much time until their troops arrive.”

Gerome remembered that his odd reactions would keep Laurent on edge. He tried to act as he usually did, whatever that was before he woke with each repetition’s phantom pains of flesh and heart. He grasped Laurent’s forearm, knowing that he would find comfort in the contact.

“Stay by me this time.” His words were steady despite the taut anxiety in his chest.

Laurent was puzzled. “Do you mean our usual dual formation?”

He shook his head. “I want you as close as possible. Can you cast from Minerva’s back?”

“What’s gotten into you?” Laurent asked incredulously. “You’re acting out of sorts.”

“I need you to trust me. This is the best way to ensure that both of us survive this.” Gerome kept his tone level but an air of desperation still leaked in his voice. Perhaps it was his intense gaze or the weight of his words, but Laurent relented. To argue would be to cut short what time they had left before Grima’s troops arrived. They couldn’t allow the advantage of unpreparedness to their foes.

Gerome assisted Laurent as he climbed up Minerva’s back, his hand lightly grazing the mage’s lower back. The contact left him wondering for a brief moment what the future might hold beyond this fight. But he was getting ahead of himself. He instead focused on helping Laurent find a steady position at the rear of the mount. “You will be able to aim your spells around her, right?”

“Certainly.” Laurent settled on Minerva’s back, carefully adjusting his robes with a precise hand. “I focused much of my training on elemental manipulation to ensure that I would never put you or her at risk. After we were assigned as combat partners, I wanted to adapt. To be the best partner for you.”

“I see. That was prudent of you.” If his partner noticed the thickness in his voice, he did not question it.

“Oh, it was barely any trouble.” Laurent said, not with pride or bashfulness, but the straightforward honesty that was his hallmark.

Gerome hastened to climb in front of Laurent so he would not see the agonized expression on his face. He had not realized the extent of Laurent’s care. It was as if every action he took and each thought which crossed his mind was for the benefit of others. The realization confirmed to Gerome that this hell was worth it. It made his heart ache with an unbearable affection. If Laurent’s very nature was unselfishness, then Gerome could at least endure these trials for him. He would watch Laurent die a thousand times, perish hundreds of deaths himself, if it meant just one future where he could walk away from this alive.

He ran through their general strategy with Laurent. Gerome would focus on maneuvers and dodges, only swinging in with his axe when a kill was assured. He would leave ranged attacks, which would form the brunt of their assault, to Laurent. He noticed Laurent shuffling through his tome, removing loose notes and tucking them in the back of the book. The mage confirmed that he was ready after his notes were secured. When they lifted into the air, Laurent was not able to stifle his anxious cry. Gerome tried to smooth their motion and soon they were sailing around the battlefield with ease.

Laurent’s first few casts were shaky at best. He was not in his element in the air, that much was evident from his aim and the waver of his voice as he called forth his spells. With each attempt, however, he adapted his technique by a little. He managed to get his bearings after a few minutes and soon enough, he was landing vital blows again.

“How are you doing?” Gerome asked, raising his voice above the clamor of battle.

Laurent leaned forward as he replied. “It’s difficult but I daresay I’m making progress. There’s a trick –”

Gerome was loath to cut Laurent off midsentence, but a well-aimed arrow called for a sudden dodge to the left. Laurent almost tumbled off, managing to hang on by wrapping his arms around Gerome’s waist. Gerome did not expect the sudden warmth at his back. Moments surfaced in his mind of times more relaxed, when he had the luxury of wondering what Laurent’s arms wrapped around him might feel like. He struggled to push such thoughts away, instead guiding Minerva back to the front line. If they did not act soon the Grimleal could break past their defense. He did not know who else might die if they failed their duty and was unwilling to find out.

Laurent regained his balance and readjusted in his seat, moving away from Gerome. He did not dwell on the dissipation of warmth in Laurent’s absence. A Grimleal paladin threatened to breach their position and he focused his attention on smashing through its armor with his axe. They were airborne once more, speeding towards the next target.

“On our right!” Gerome called the target and Laurent obliged with a burst of Arcfire. The general fell with little issue and they moved on to their next opponent in grim silence.

They fell into this pace more easily than either expected. Gerome would pick a target and Laurent would dispatch a pillar of flame or a lethal gale. If the spell did not finish their target, then Gerome’s axe surely would.

Soon enough, the returning troops dwindled. It seemed after the eighth wave of enemies that Laurent’s life was spared. Gerome felt himself relax slightly. They lingered in the air for several long moments. Minerva sensed Gerome’s grip slacken on the reigns and began her descent.

Before they landed, however, a blast of purple light flashed. From magical circles powered by Grima’s influence, Grimleal troops ran towards them with a violent desperation.

Gerome flinched into action, drawing in a sharp breath. This was not what he remembered from the many times he had outlived Laurent. Some variable had changed, perhaps. He felt foolish for letting his guard down so soon. He moved to angle Minerva’s upward flight, but a flash of dark magic cut into their path. He swung the reins and Minerva just barely dodged its necrotic touch.

In the resounding gust of wind, Gerome did not hear Laurent’s surprised cry as he slid off the mount. He did hear the following scream, as Laurent landed upon the blade of a great knight.

Gerome tried to direct Minerva’s upward arc into an elliptic pattern. He could still reach Laurent if he just pushed a little harder.

An agonized bellow rose in the air. Initially he thought it was Laurent until he saw paladin’s blade slide across the smooth flesh of his throat. It was then that he registered that howl as his own broken voice, soon drowned out by the marching reinforcements ahead. He fell from his mount more than jumped, running to Laurent’s side though he was already gone.

He did not move from Laurent’s side as the Grimleal advanced. He did not avoid the axe falling onto his head as tears fell from his eyes to Laurent’s bloodied face.

* * *

He learned that waking with his memory worsened the sensations. When he blinked to see the same dark landscape ahead, he was not surprised to feel a stab of pain along the back of his head. He wished he would learn to die less painfully, but controlling the fall of his opponent’s axe seemed impossible. He was having trouble enough with his current task. He let out a gruff sigh, raking his hand through his hair as he ran through his options.

“Gerome?” Laurent was waiting once again, concern lingering in his gaze.

Gerome’s eyes darted away. He found it was easier to focus when he made an effort to not notice the little signs that Laurent cared for him. From the influx of memories from this battlefield, there were tells everywhere. The way that Laurent insisted on asking about his wellbeing. Laurent’s cautious touches along his arm, near his shoulder. Close to his face, but not too close. How his eyes flickered in some moments before the battle, wavering, as if considering a question too enormous to ask. Laurent definitely felt towards Gerome, that much was clear. He knew because he saw his own concerned actions in those habits, as he glanced at Laurent with the same uncertain desperation. Whether those feelings were colored by romance, he did not waste time dwelling on. He would ask Laurent for the truth of their relationship when his life was not hanging in the balance. Right now, his focus defined the barrier between life and death for both of them.

“I’m alright, Laurent.” He said. “Nothing to concern yourself over.”

“Okay.” Laurent turned towards the southern flank. “So, are we going with our usual strategy?”

He ran through his options for the upcoming battle and settled on an experimental approach. What worked best last time was a completely fresh strategy.

“No.” He whistled at Minerva, and waved his hand upward three times. She recognized the signal to patrol the skies riderless. “I’m not mounting.”

“What?” Laurent was baffled. “Why would you not mount? Does that not reduce mobility?”

“In the air, perhaps.” He hefted his axe, resting the cool steel on the edge of his armored shoulder. “But on the ground, I can watch your back more effectively. This battle will be tough. We may be easily overwhelmed, knowing how much influence Grima has over his followers.”

“You know I can handle myself on the battlefield, correct?”

“I know.” Gerome swallowed the bitterness he felt over those words. It was true, Laurent was a staunch ally. Before this battle, Gerome had never struggled to keep an eye on him as a combat partner. But unfortunately fate just so happened to choose Laurent’s head for the altar. Before fate, even the strongest must bend. That much Gerome knew, and yet and he continued to stand foolishly against it. There were some things he could not abide losing. Laurent was the friend he could not imagine his life without. And Naga’s favor had not run out for them yet.

Laurent held Gerome’s gaze steadily. “You’re inscrutable.” He sighed.

“Just trust me.” Gerome risked a light brush of his fingers along Laurent’s forearm. He saw him visibly relax beneath his touch and his heart ached. “I have reasons that I can’t yet explain.”

“So be it.” Laurent lifted his tome, thumbing open the page for Excalibur along a familiar crease. 

It was fortunate they came to a resolution, for the Grimleal were advancing upon them moments later. Gerome kept good on his promise, guarding Laurent’s side with a grim ferocity. If the vicious arc of his axe carving out lines of blood from their enemies surprised Laurent, he did not show it. He focused his own efforts, keeping close to Gerome’s back. Magic burst from his fingertips in brilliant, deadly streaks. His spells cut into the troops further away, leaving more clear targets for Gerome’s blade.

This close to Laurent, Gerome found himself both comforted and on edge. He always kept his friend in his peripheral vision during this fight, but to stand on the same unsteady ground with him added another level of closeness. When an enemy edged too near, Gerome did not hesitate to stand before the blow. He knocked away blade after blade with the blunt edge of his axe. While Gerome stayed aware of his companion, it was evident that Laurent was doing much of the same.

When a foolhardy paladin charged at him, lance leveled at his chest, Gerome stumbled to dodge. But he felt the pull of his collar as Laurent dragged him backwards. The force of moving Gerome’s weight, however, propelled him forward just enough that the lance still found a target. With a sickening tear, Gerome registered the blade skewering Laurent’s abdomen. He screamed, knocking his axe upward to disarm the enemy. His opponent lost balance, sliding down the back of his horse with a gruff cry. Gerome’s axe fell with a crunch, but he did not assess the twisted body of his foe.

He swung around, dropping to his knees beside Laurent. The mage was shallowly breathing, panic over mortality flooding his face.

“Gerome, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know—” Tears brimmed in his eyes as he struggled to explain.

The wound was ragged, far too wide. Bright red leaked across black and white robes, and Gerome knew it flowed too quickly. He could gauge fatality at a glance nowadays. He did not waste time.

“It will be ok, Laurent.” Gerome leaned in close, touching his forehead to his friend’s. He cupped his cheek gently, his thumb brushing away Laurent’s tears. He summoned the words he wished he had told him repetitions ago, each time he held his bleeding form prior. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Those words loosened Laurent’s final line of restraint. His face cracked into a sob and he buried his head in the crook of Gerome’s neck. It was not long before his breath grew slow and his weeping stopped.

Gerome held him until he grew silent and cold. His arms were still around Laurent when the sword of a Grimleal knight pierced his chest.

* * *

He almost groaned at the sight of the dark purple clouds above. The wind tore at his face, still raw from shedding tears over Laurent’s corpse moments prior. His chest ached and he could not tell if it was from the wound or the grief. When he turned and saw his partner’s look of concern, he could no longer keep up the charade.

“Laurent.” He faced him directly, grasping his shoulder in a tight grip. “I need you to believe something improbable.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Now is hardly the time for theorizing, Gerome.”

“It’s—” He sighed in exasperation. “Look. You are going to die in this battle. I know it because I have seen it happen dozens of times now. We are stuck in this moment, reliving it over and over again. You only don’t know because you cannot remember or sense the repetitions.”

Laurent’s initial response was predictably skeptical. “What evidence do you have for such a claim?”

“The evidence is in my memories.” Gerome grit out. “I would gladly pour them out before you. Would you like the time you died from a sword across your throat? Or perhaps your death by a sorcerer’s dark magic? That time was particularly gruesome, I assure you.” The sarcasm in his voice was a thin veil for the despair in his heart. Nonetheless, his tone held a sharp edge.

The blood drained from Laurent’s face. “I know you would not lie over such things. And yet…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you certain? Do you know this as absolutely the case?”

“Yes.” His voice was level, his hand still firm on Laurent’s shoulder. “I would not lie about something so horrendous. I am telling you this because I need your help. Last time, you threw yourself upon a blade to protect me.” His face broke into a bitter, jagged smile. “Imagine, seeing your closest friend die for you, when you were trying to save them all this time.”

“Gerome, I—”

“Laurent, please allow me to finish.” Gerome said gruffly. “I need you to live through this conflict. I know, you always consider odds and make sacrifices to gain the advantage. I know that you see yourself as expendable for the greater cause. But you must do away with that logic in this battle. Be the most selfish person in this cursed world. Live. I’m begging you to live through this so that I might have a future worth looking forward to at the end of this hell.”

For a moment, Laurent was speechless. His face bore genuine shock, one that spoke to the truth he now understood. It seemed he felt it too, that cutting despair which fueled Gerome’s plea. From the guilt in his eyes, Laurent seemed to finally believe him. For once in the time they had known each other, Gerome’s words swelled in his chest and hovered in the air while Laurent’s died on his lips. The silence was broken by howls of wind around them, as the Grimleal arrived by Grima’s favor.

“What is our plan?” Laurent finally asked, his voice shaken.

“Climb aboard Minerva with me. You’ve trained to aim around her, right?”

Laurent looked at him in surprise. “Have I mentioned that to you before?”

Gerome grunted affirmatively because to explain was to further waste time. He had feared what telling Laurent might cost. Their trust on the battlefield, for one, could disintegrate under the pressure of Gerome’s implausible story. Laurent seemed to accept his words with more weight than skepticism. Yet in his desperation to prove their predicament, Gerome may have upset his comrade too much. And that had lost them the time they normally spent strategizing.

Bright lightning sparked from Laurent’s fingertip as he sent out a blast of Thoron to keep the line of Grimleal troops at bay. Gerome hurried on to Minerva’s back, extending a hand to his friend.

“Laurent, fall back and join me!” He obliged, rushing to climb up the side of Minerva’s mount.

“I will trust your knowledge of this battle. If you have lived through it multiple times, you should know the lay of the land better than none other.” Laurent explained as he slid into his seat behind Gerome. “Feel free to guide my hand as if it were your own.”

“I will not let you down.” Gerome said grimly. “Make sure you put away your spare notes.”

“Ah, yes of course.” Laurent swiftly pulled the loose pieces of paper from his tome, stuffing them inside the inner sleeve of his book’s leather cover.

Gerome tugged on Minerva’s reigns and with a rush of air, they shot into the sky. He felt the fear claw at his chest and knew to steady his breathing. As he calmed, so too did Minerva. She lunged downward, bringing them to the heart of the Grimleal.

“Cast now!” He called and Laurent followed, a gust of Excalibur releasing from his palm with a deadly gleam. It cut down a sorcerer with ease. With Gerome’s guidance, Laurent managed to adapt to airborne combat sooner than before. His hand steadied and his breath slowed as the mage honed his focus with each spell. Minerva followed Gerome’s command to dodge the incoming arrows from the bow knight in the rear ranks.

“Can you reach the archer?” He asked, and Laurent answered with a blast of Thoron. The spell angled downward in a hazardous arc, cutting across the bow knight’s chest without mercy.

They continued to dodge hits from magic units while picking off the more vicious physical fighters. It was a battle of attrition, in which the most careful solution wrought the best results. Gerome had learned that even the slightest shift could disrupt their outcome. The smallest gust could turn into a gale that tore his careful plans to shreds.

So he retraced his steps through the battle, moment by moment. When a Grimleal paladin raced towards them, he parried the blow with a familiar swing of his axe. As a flying unit neared their position, Gerome redirected their attacks. When Gerome called, Laurent answered with flashes of red and green, lightning and flames. He was the steadfast wind beneath Gerome’s command, the unwavering power upon which he could always trust. He found himself glad that it was Laurent by his side through this hell. The one who would believe his anguish, the one who would follow his counsel, the one who knew his heart better than any other.

Several waves of enemies fell to Gerome’s axe, to Laurent’s spells. As one Grimleal fell, another soon rose from the magic circles of Grima’s influence. In shades of violet, they marched forward with tomes and lances in hand, swords and arrows drawn. Gerome peered through their monolithic front and continued to pick them off, one by one. He started with the most threatening units—the archers, mages, and any solider wielding ranged weaponry. His eyes were watering from how long they remained open, how often he forgot to blink. To lose sight of the battle for one moment was too long. Even a single second without focus left his heart balanced on the edge of an unbearable anxiety.

Minerva dipped her flight to angle them closer, bringing a warrior within Gerome’s grasp. His axe filled the space, coloring the air with blood. The lurch of Minerva’s ascent displaced Laurent, who Gerome sensed behind him with a sharp awareness. He felt Laurent tense and realized that he was wavering, uncertain of whether he could hang on for support.

“Please,” He said against the wind, turning his head to address Laurent. “Do not hesitate to hold on if you lose balance.”

Laurent seemed to hear the sentiment beneath his words, perhaps even to understand the times which informed Gerome’s concern. He leaned forward, wrapping his arm hesitantly around Gerome’s waist. He balanced his tome in his other arm, keeping the page open with the cover’s leather flap.

The Grimleal continued to advance in cyclical droves. Gerome grew more wary with each wave, dreading that this time it would be their end. The hammer of fate would pin them against an immovable anvil if allowed the slightest margin to do so. Laurent would be offered up once again when the opportunity arose. But he took every precaution to suppress that outcome. He felt a headache begin to form in his temples and realized he had been clenching his jaw with alarming force. Gerome breathed out a stiff sigh, trying to will himself to relax while still maintaining his survey of the battlefield.

Laurent leaned forward, murmuring close to his ear, “You’re doing excellent work. Though, I would caution you to avoid overexerting yourself.”

Gerome grunted in agreement and ignored the stir of affection he felt over Laurent’s nearness. His companion’s breath ghosted the back of his ear in erratic puffs of air, and the warmth lingered with a tenderness that nearly distracted him. But Gerome maintained concentration on the battle ahead, continuing to find their next target with a relentless tenacity. He would allow the truth of his feelings to catch up with him when this was done, when they were finally free from the clutches of fate. He only hoped that he would not fall to pieces beneath the crushing weight of it all when he finally chose to address it.

He could sense the exhaustion in his heart, mind, and body as they continued to break through ranks with brutal force. Gerome could not waver, and yet he knew he was reaching the edges of himself. His muscles strained with action, crying out with a stabbing pain at each swing of his axe. Blinking repeatedly, he noticed his vision blurring at the edges. The swirling chaos of clouds and wind before him did his eyesight no favors as the shadows around them closed in with each new swarming round of troops. While his body began to betray him with its frailty, his resolve was unbroken. Though his mind grew clouded by fatigue, he pushed past all limits with what strength he could muster. He did not waver. With each new ache that his body documented, Gerome countered it with the reminder of Laurent’s warmth at his back. As he struggled to catch his own breath, he clung to the hope that Laurent could continue breathing alongside him, that he would not struggle out a dying gasp by the end of this fight.

Waves of enemies thinned to a trickle. The echoes of cries ahead in the northern flank beckoned to them. But Gerome knew that to underestimate Grima was to open their lives to fate’s unending hunger. In past times, he would call to Laurent for them to head to Lucina and Yarne and aid them in the middle ground of the battle. It was during this travel that reinforcements would swell to the rear flank and overwhelm them, taking Laurent’s position first. He grimaced at the memories, of realizing Laurent’s absence only to turn and see him fall to one of several weapons. The very first time they fought this battle Laurent had been caught alone by advancing troops, dying with a silent cry to a Sorcerer’s dark magic. Gerome had only noticed as the flash of Goetia broke the surrounding air with a chilled light. Seeing Laurent slump to his knees, his face gray and blank in death, had filled him with guilt and grief in equal measure.

“Shall we advance northward?” Laurent asked behind him, breaking him from his cycles of strategizing and remembering.

“No.” He answered firmly. “We watch the southern flank until Grima is pushed to the edge of his power. If we lose sight of it for a moment, they could retaliate with deadly results.”

“I see.” Laurent readjusted his sitting position, pulling his arm from Gerome’s side. He flipped to another page in his tome, readying his casting hand with a wary look. “Has such negligence led to my demise before?”

“Yes.” He was curt in his reply but the ache in his voice gave enough detail for the two of them. They fell into an agonized silence. Before either could venture to break it, the expected flash of dark magic hailed Grima’s last wave of troops.

Gerome exhaled, stilling his nerves in the moment before action. And then, almost too soon, his heels tapped Minerva’s sides and they dove towards the Grimleal.

“Target the sorcerer first!” Gerome guided Minerva’s path to center their mark. Laurent obliged, filling the air with crackling lightning. Thoron ripped into the sorcerer, downing them in a single jolt. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as they swooped to the ground. Gerome smashed his axe into the armor of a paladin, and Laurent finished the assault with a blast of Arcfire. Pulling his reigns in a pained grip, Gerome winced as he redirected their flight path. His wrist throbbed from the soreness of this battle coupled with the memory of those prior. He wheezed out a groan but continued nonetheless.

Gerome kept his eyes trained ahead as he led their offensive. The last troops in this wave were of another caliber, fighting with the desperation of soldiers pushed to the limit. Their last strategy, it seemed, was to go for an all-out offensive. As much as he watched, Gerome could not observe the full chaos of troops before them. So he did not see the flash of metal rush towards Minerva’s abdomen. Minerva reacted just a moment too slowly to the thrust of the lance and its silver edge carved across her belly. As she screeched, Gerome felt the sting of her pain. He gasped and they faltered together, Minerva crashing towards the ground in shock.

Laurent, however, maintained his calm. His hands flew over Gerome’s, drawing the reigns tight in an upward swing. Minerva followed the sensation, her nose aiming skyward in one smooth movement. They were far above the battlefield in seconds. Minerva glided shakily, but managed to smooth out her flight in the space away from the battle’s front lines.

“I apologize.” Laurent said, quickly withdrawing his hands. He seemed to realize what had happened moments later, his thoughts rushing to catch up. “It was rude of me to act in your stead.”

Gerome realized his hands were trembling. He took one steadying breath, then several more. It took him a while to respond with a neutral tone.

“Thank you.” He said softly at last. “I was caught in sympathy for Minerva and I…”

“It’s okay.” Laurent assured him. “This is perhaps the hardest battle we have ever fought. I do not blame you for faltering in one moment.” His hand ventured to Gerome’s shoulder, thumb brushing down in a comforting arc. “We should return to our position soon, though. I fear we may lose time if we remain distant for much longer.”

Gerome nodded sharply. “Right.” His hands returned to Minerva’s reigns. Before he pulled, though, he ran his hand once over her neck. “Are you okay, girl?”

She replied with a soft croak and a toss of her head. She was fine, he understood. From the impatient beat of her wings, she was itching to return to battle. He smiled as he lead her descent.

They swooped into rear of the Grimleal’s advance. Diving with an inhuman speed, Minerva brought them to the enemy’s back line of sages. Gerome cut the troops away with his axe easily. The front line soldiers realized their mistake and began to reroute their path. However, Laurent took his opportunity to strike sooner than they could respond. With a practiced hand, he shot cutting gusts of Excalibur through their ranks. The green reflected in his glasses a deep brilliance. Gerome refocused his gaze, pulling Minerva back to a safer altitude.

They continued their usual rhythm of diving and dodging, picking off foes one by one. Gerome did not risk leaving them overextended, instead relying on Minerva’s speed and Laurent’s range. Eventually, they stood against their last foe, a great knight with his sword drawn. He fell from a mundane blast of Arcfire and Gerome almost laughed over the dullness of it. And yet, instead of bitterness, he felt the beginnings of hope.

They hung in the air, waiting for the next wave of opponents. From the northern front, far from where either of them could see, Robin landed the final blow despite Chrom’s desperate scream. The echo of Grima’s dying cry reached them however, filling the space with a grave ring. It stretched the air under the weight of death, digging into their skin with an unsettling grip.

The roil of purple and black clouds above broke, revealing a blue sky tinged with the sun’s red streaks at dusk. It was over. Gerome blinked numbly, his breath a shuddering gasp. As if his body could no longer handle the strain it had been under, he slipped from consciousness. He remembered the fading of his vision, of Laurent’s face growing closer with words unheard spilling from his lips. And then the waves of exhaustion overwhelmed him and his eyes fluttered closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so the rest of the fic will be less angsty now I promise! look forward to the next two chapters for resolution and pining, all that good stuff (and perhaps….a confession….9.9)


	3. reverberations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Gerome found it cruel in a funny way, that he had convinced himself he would process those emotions when everything was said and done. They had felled the dragon, Laurent was still breathing, and yet his cowardice thrived.
> 
>   
> Gerome wakes up after the battle. Though they have overcome the time loop, he struggles to adjust to everyday life. And he's not exactly in a rush to let Laurent know about his feelings.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated the tags (additions: nightmares, PTSD, grief/mourning)
> 
> sorry this is a day late my brain was not cooperating with me yesterday. hope you enjoy this update!

Gerome did not rouse again until many days later, when he groaned suddenly from his infirmary bed. The abrupt sound startled Morgan from his task of arranging the medical supplies. The young medic sighed when he noticed Gerome crack open his eyes with a grumble.

“You nearly scared me to death, you know that?”

Though Gerome was awake, he was not yet ready for speech. He was silent until several minutes later, after Morgan had handed him a glass of water to quell the thirst searing his throat.

“How long?” He asked, his voice a gravelly whisper. From the soreness in his muscles and the ache in his head, he knew the answer must be a significant number. When Morgan mumbled out, “Two months, give or take?” he choked on his water.

It was then that he registered his surroundings. The infirmary was not a tent, but a building with a roof and insulated walls. The quality of his bed was much higher grade than anything he had slept on before.

“Where are we?” He asked in stiff confusion.

“Ylisstol.” Morgan sat primly, his hands worrying the edge of his tunic. “This is the Shepherd’s home base. I’m helping run the infirmary to complete my training as a war monk. And after our last battle…”

“I was the only one who fell?”

“Oh, well actually…” Morgan drifted off, a faraway look in his eyes. Gerome realized his mistake. Robin had been lost in the original timeline too. He had not remembered before speaking, but now he felt a keen stab of guilt as he watched Morgan’s face fall at the reminder.

“They’re still looking for Robin.” He explained finally. Gerome nodded, careful not to ask for further explanation. Instead, he changed the subject.

“Where are the others?” He mumbled hoarsely. “Those of us from the future?”

Morgan tapped his chin. “They’re all still around. Yarne’s been spending a lot of time with his mom. He’s been trying to learn more about his culture as a Taguel apparently. Owain and Cynthia might leave soon, but they’ve been saying they’re gonna take a journey around the world for a few weeks now so who knows.”

Gerome continued to sip at his water slowly while Morgan updated him about the others.

“Laurent has been studying a ton but that’s the usual for him, y’know.”

Morgan cracked a smile at Gerome’s nod and the knowing look in his eye. “That’s good to hear.” Gerome’s voice was still rough, but much more coherent now that he was hydrated.

“Lucina has been working around the palace, but she’s been talking about leaving on a trip someday. She doesn’t want to get in the way of her younger self, or that’s what she’s said at least. Kjelle insists on guarding her constantly. Severa and Noire usually are around them too, though those two have just been enjoying their time off as far as I can tell.”

Gerome lowered his now empty glass. “I should hope so.”

“Oh! That reminds me, Brady has started his violin practice again. Maribelle drills him on it like every night! You know, my quarters shares a wall with his, so I have to hear –”

Before he could finish his rant, a faint knock sounded at the door.

“Oh, it’s that time already I guess.” Morgan jumped up and scurried to the door. He cracked it open and then glanced shyly back at Gerome. “I think I’m gonna take my break. We should talk more later.” He paused for a moment, uncertain, before running off. He called over his shoulder as he left, “And, uh, you have a visitor. Bye!”

With that, Morgan exited the room and left the door ajar. Gerome stared at the person standing in the doorway. Of course it was Laurent, holding his mage’s hat to his chest like a flimsy shield.

Neither spoke for a few long moments. They instead regarded one another, Laurent looking at Gerome with concern, and Gerome looking as if he had forgotten how to speak entirely.

At last, Laurent broke the long stretch of silence. “I’m glad that you’re awake.” He said carefully. “May I come in?”

Gerome nodded, his eyes trained on the floor. Hesitant footsteps neared, then a chair scraped across wood. His hands gripped the edge of his bedsheet, seeking something to ground him. The soft scratch of linen pressed into his knuckles, and yet it did not still the pounding of his heart.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” Gerome finally managed to say. His voice was still rough like metal scraping stone.

“I often visit around this time of day.” Laurent explained in a soft tone. The implication of Laurent visiting him daily did nothing to calm his nerves. “Did you wake up this morning?”

“Within the hour.” Gerome croaked. “I’m still…adjusting.”

“Ah heavens, I did not realize. Shall I leave you to acclimate?”

“No.” Gerome quickly rebuffed. “I am happy you’re here.”

Though his shoulders tensed and his fingers curled tightly into the edges of his bed covers, he was genuinely content to see Laurent again. It felt like no time had passed between the battlefield and its many repetitions. He had expected to have nightmares about that day for the rest of his life. He anticipated dreams filled with images of Laurent’s pallid face fresh from death and the echoes of his dying gasps. Instead, he woke from a heavy dreamless slumber, still tense from battle. Some part of his mind was stuck wondering if fate hung around the corner, hoping to end Laurent’s life with a coincidental strike. Gerome was pulled from his thoughts when a gentle warmth wrapped around his hand.

“You are trembling.” Laurent clarified his action a moment later. His fingers were thin with the slight protrusion of his joints accenting their curve. They were firm, holding Gerome to the present moment. The past fled from his mind at Laurent’s touch, and he raised his eyes to finally look at his companion directly.

“I was remembering.” He said and Laurent understood.

“It’s an enormous amount of information to process. Take your time.” Then, a smile. “If you have anything to ask of me, I’m here.”

Many questions flooded his mind, but none were appropriate to voice in the moment. Luckily, Gerome’s stomach sounded with an odd cry. “I think I should eat something.” He made to leave his bed, but Laurent gently pressed a hand to his chest.

“You should not hurry to leave bed. Your muscles have surely deteriorated over the constant bedrest.” Gerome obliged, laying back with his arms crossed. “We did try to massage your limbs to improve blood flow –”

“I’m sorry, you what?”

“Ah, I did not specifically.” Laurent explained. “I merely observed and aided with my own research. Brady and Morgan as physicians in training were more involved with the actual activity.” His friend seemed to realize Gerome’s embarrassment and hastened to elaborate. “I apologize, we were merely following the guidance of care as outlined by Libra and Lissa.”

“No, it’s fine.” Gerome sighed, and then paused as he processed Laurent’s words. “I did not realize you studied healing practices.”

“It’s not my usual discipline, no.” Laurent glanced away. “I admit, passing the time while concerned about your wellbeing impacted the priorities of my education in no small part. I hope that is not too forthcoming of me to confess.”

“I understand.” Gerome’s words were noncommittal, but his voice was clearly affected. He did not expect Laurent to do things for him as the main cause. It reminded him of the affection he held for his friend, but not even a flame-scorched brand to his back would draw those admissions from him in this moment. As his stomach grumbled with another growl, he changed the subject. “So how do I get food?”

“I will fetch it for you!” Laurent declared, obviously thankful to near neutral waters once more. “What would you like?”

And when Laurent returned with slices of meat and roasted vegetables, Gerome ate with a ravenous hunger. It was only after he finished and began sipping his water that the thought dawned on him.

“Where is Minerva?” His eyes were wide with concern.

“She is staying with Cherche and her younger self. They are stationed in this area temporarily with some of the other Shepherds. On standby, so you could say, while others continue to search the Ylissean countryside.”

“I heard they’re still looking for Robin.”

“Yes, they are.” Laurent confirmed. He lowered his head, a bittersweet expression on his face. “While some preferred to take the days following peace as an opportunity for rest, I understand Chrom’s sentiment well enough.”

He felt a deep rush of anticipation in his chest at that admission. Gerome bit back his reply, knowing that to acknowledge it would be to open the conversation towards matters of the heart. And he was not ready for that discussion. Words hung in the air between them, light impressions of questions swirling in the silence. And then the door swung open, heralding Morgan’s return, and the moment passed like leaves scattered by the wind.

* * *

Gerome left the infirmary a week later. After completing the requisite amount of physical training, Libra approved him to leave.

“But,” the priest said, glancing from his clipboard. “If you plan on departing from this area anytime soon, I would discourage long distance travel for at least another few weeks.”

“Does that include riding a wyvern?”

“Especially avoid that.” Libra said with an angelic smile and Gerome found it difficult to argue. He grumbled, grabbing the sheet of paper with instructions for care with a curt swipe.

Laurent took time off from his studies to escort Gerome from the infirmary and help him set up his quarters. They were living in the Shepherd’s barracks based in the interior of Ylisstol. The distance between the infirmary and the quarters was not long, but it was enough of a walk to permit a guide. Libra had recommended a walking partner, in part because Gerome’s muscles were still weak from months of bedrest. Even as he walked small distances around the infirmary, he felt the tired strain of his legs, unused to movement. When he met Laurent at the entrance of the infirmary, he did not need to ask that they slow their pace. The mage fell into step beside him, just slightly ahead of him to lead the way.

As they strolled along the streets of Ylisstol, Gerome continually had to conceal his surprise. His memories of the Ylissean capital were of a twisted city, wrecked by waves of risen. He remembered broken buildings covered in the haze of dark magic. He could almost hear the scraping of risen hands along his family home’s door when he lingered in the past for too long. He and his parents fled from it when he was too young to recall much else.

“Was this place always so…bright?” He asked disdainfully.

“Ah, apparently so.” Laurent said. “I studied the history of this capital when I was left alone in my mother’s library more than a few times. It seems that after the rule of King Varren, the newly crowned Exalt sought to bring forth a reign of peace. She wanted the city to reflect that vision.”

“Emmeryn, you mean?”

“Yes, Chrom’s sister.” Laurent adjusted his glasses. “It does make one feel unsettled though, knowing how these streets looked in our own time.”

“Better bright than covered in risen.” Gerome said grimly.

“Agreed.” Laurent rounded the street corner, bringing them to a building with a large oak door. “Here we are.” He turned a key in the lock, and pushed the door open.

Several Shepherds milled about in the common area. Gaius was debating the sugar content of a few sweets with Sumia, who did not seem to have strong thoughts either way. Reclined on a chair, Maribelle was reading over some thick legal document. And at the table eating lunch was Owain, Cynthia, and Inigo. When the latter three saw Gerome they paused in conversation to offer him a chorus of greetings. He was grateful he had a replacement mask to cover his face. Despite his embarrassment at the burst of attention, he managed to give them a brisk reply.

When Laurent showed him his room, he was relieved to be alone once more. The thought confused him for a moment with its irony. Surely, he was not truly alone, because Laurent stood beside him. But being alone with only Laurent to converse with was…comforting, he realized. At least, when compared to the agitation he felt when in the company of anyone else, there was a notable difference. It was similar to the companionship that he shared with Minerva. Time spent with her was never uncomfortable, it was merely his normal routine. The realization filled him with a restless energy, but he refused to analyze it further.

“Now, if you have questions about where anything is, please do not hesitate to ask.” Laurent said, still hovering by the door.

“Of course.” Gerome set his bag on the bed and started unpacking his things. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

His words hung between them and that similarly tense feeling returned. As if the air had been sucked from the room, they stood in oppressive silence for a few moments. Gerome was on edge, forcing himself to bite his tongue. He did not want to rush his confession and ruin it. On the battlefield, certainly, he had considered what words he would say, which gestures he might use to express the depth of his emotions to Laurent. But he was not ready, especially not with this anxiety coursing through his veins and scratching away at his heart. He bowed his head and focused on unpacking.

And then Laurent’s boots clicked on the hard ground with a snap as he returned to the present. “I should be taking my leave then.”

As Laurent’s footsteps faded down the hall, Gerome let out a sigh he had not realized he had been holding. Ever since he woke up, they had moments such as these near daily. Their words would lead towards conclusions which neither of them had resolved yet, it seemed. Gerome found it cruel in a funny way, that he had convinced himself he would process those emotions when everything was said and done. They had felled the dragon, Laurent was still breathing, and yet his cowardice thrived.

In truth, he was afraid. He had revealed a raw side of himself that day on the battlefield. It was the most words he had spoken in succession to another person in a long while. And though he spoke much, they certainly weren’t lacking in meaning. He had alluded to many things to Laurent in that moment, things that Laurent might not have noticed or understood before. It definitely seemed like he understood more than he used to, with how carefully he now chose his words. He seemed to wait at the end of each of their encounters, giving Gerome the space to tell him something should he desire it.

And Gerome desired it deeply, to declare to Laurent that he was in love with him. That he had been in love with him for a long time. But he was unable to voice it without his nerves overwhelming his thoughts. Gerome worried that Laurent would interpret his advances as an assumption, that by saving him from his fated death he felt like Laurent owed him something. He wanted their love to start on a strong note, not one of guilt-tinged duty. And, to be frank, it had been difficult to find time to confess when he was bedridden and recovering. He hadn’t wanted to sully their visits with concerns of the heart, where they lacked privacy and ample time.

To put it simply, he was procrastinating.

 _I will tell him before I leave._ He decided as he unpacked his things. _That much I can manage._

Since Gerome was not due to leave for at least a few more weeks, that gave him more than enough time to find an opportunity.

When a full week passed without a single inch of progress, though, he began to wonder if it would be enough.

For one, Laurent was often accompanied by another person—his mother, Morgan, Yarne, Kjelle, or any of the others from their generation for that matter. It seemed he intended to keep up his daily rounds. Though, instead of assessing their health and abilities for combat, he was trying to determine how they were acclimating after the war.

“Research shows that individuals who undergo prolonged trauma early in their development have long lasting effects.” He explained to Gerome. “I am trying to keep track of our symptoms and understand how we can recover emotionally from the trials of war.”

Gerome thought it was exceedingly thoughtful, meaning that it was exactly the type of thing that Laurent would busy himself over. There were brief meetings between the two of them still. Gerome had considered taking his chances during one of those periods, but Laurent was often crunched for time. He had a set routine with appointments usually scheduled in close succession. Gerome was afraid of disrupting his time commitments with something so distracting as a love confession. Instead, he focused on keeping his hands still while they sat together. Even a casual brush of his fingers against Laurent’s as they poured over the same document stirred tender feelings in his chest. He knew that he could not keep his emotions in check for much longer.

In the evenings, he would try to catch Laurent alone but he often ended up involved in group activities. The other shepherds loved to rope him into cooking because he could chop ingredients with a steady hand (and with much more consistency than Owain, who insisted on wielding the knife as if it were a sword). After dinner, they would often linger in conversation. Gerome would usually retreat to his room. Lately, however, he has been testing his ability to endure socializing with the others. One of Laurent’s suggestions to “overcome potential emotional strain related to post-traumatic stress” was to continue building bonds with others who might understand such problems. Gerome heard the embedded request to interact with the others more and took it to heart. Instead of leaving fifteen minutes after dinner, he’s been able to extend his silent lingering to about twenty-five.

He also has been making an effort to interact with the others when the opportunity arises. He helped Noire purchase supplies for their barracks one morning. When he noticed Morgan struggling to move large stacks of books, he offered to help carry them. That’s how he ended up rearranging the texts along the common area bookshelves one afternoon. And when Lucina felt like burning off some restless energy with training, he obliged her request.

Of course, it was difficult to keep up with her when he was in recovery. Now as she dove at him, training sword swinging in precise jabs, he stumbled to intercept her blow with his axe. He was usually at a disadvantage with her. But, as the muscle in his leg tightened into a knot, he had to end the match entirely.

“Are you alright?” Lucina squatted beside him as he kneeled on the ground and worked the muscle with his hand.

“I’m still out of shape. Constant bedrest left me weak.” He frowned, slowly standing up again. “I think that’s enough for me today.”

Lucina straightened up beside him. “Of course. I did not realize you were still healing. My apologies for asking you to train despite that.”

“Don’t mind it. I was the one who agreed.” He strode to the side of the training field, extending his leg in a stretch. Libra had left him with a few recommended stretches to help build up his strength again. Lucina followed, lowering herself into her usual stretching routine after combat training.

“Are you faring well?” Lucina glanced up at him as she leaned over, holding her stretch firmly.

“Well enough.”

“I’m glad to hear it. If you need help with anything, I’m here for you.”

Gerome smiled lightly, his face turned away. “I appreciate it.”

Later that night, Gerome’s muscle was still stiff from training. He prepared a warm pack to loosen its tension. But as he fell asleep, finally feeling relief from one remnant of that battle, he was soon reminded of its enduring influence once more.

He blinked and the sky was a swirl of violet and black, lightning flashing above. Cries from behind them echoed across the battlefield, each gaining in volume until it merged into a bloodcurdling scream. And when he turned, expecting Laurent or Minerva or any ally really, he was met with a body. Should he be the fool, which he often was, he would crouch and roll over the corpse. It was always Laurent’s face stained with blood. His expression was cold and unfamiliar in death.

Gerome’s eyes shot open, his breath a ragged gasp as he woke from the same nightmare again. For a moment, all he could do was breathe and feel the insistent hammer of his pulse pound through his head. Then he returned gradually, first through the feel of the blanket along his fingertips. He perceived the darkness around him as vaguely familiar and then remembered where he now slept. He still was not used to his quarters in the shepherd’s barracks. After a while, his heartbeat calmed and he felt himself relax once more. The dreams only served to upset him, so he tried not to linger on their contents. But as he sat wide awake and staring into the darkness around him, he could not forget the expression on Laurent’s face. It was the emptiness in his eyes which upset him the most. Laurent’s eyes were always sharp and precise in their brightness. It was because he was so observant, routinely engaged in the matters of those around him with genuine investment. It made Gerome sick to remember how unfocused Laurent’s eyes had looked in death.

He leapt from his bed in one smooth motion, resolving to walk off his nervous energy. Anything was preferable than lingering on what he had just dreamt of.

As he walked from his quarters to the kitchen, he was surprised to see a few candles lit. When he finally turned the corner, his step creaked across the floorboard with a distinct cry. He saw the flash of light reflect in glasses and realized that he was face to face with Laurent. The man was preparing herbs in a cup when Gerome stumbled into the room, still groggy from sleep.

“You’re up late.” Laurent commented, his hand pausing in its motion. He was scooping herbs into his cup with a tiny spoon.

“As are you.” Gerome strode across the room and lingered by the table. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” Laurent twisted his spoon, filling the bottom of his teacup with its aromatic contents. “Would you care for some tea?”

Gerome glanced at the mixture of herbs with a raised eyebrow. “It depends on the kind.”

“It’s chamomile. I have found it an effective aid in lulling one to sleep.”

Gerome nodded as he sat beside Laurent. “Sure, then.” He leaned forward, resting his head on his fist. “Why are you up?”

“I was so focused on a document, I did not realize the lateness of the hour until long past midnight. Sometimes if I stave off sleep for long enough at night, it’s difficult for me to feel tired.” Laurent hopped from his seat and pulled another teacup from the cupboard. “What has kept you up at such a late hour?”

Gerome huffed, rubbing at his eyes as if that would alleviate his drowsiness. “Bad dreams,” he mumbled.

“Ah, that’s bothersome.” Laurent placed the teacup before him and began to spoon herbs into it. “Would you care to discuss what happened? I know of some studies which claim that talking about troubling dreams with a companion or trained professional can ameliorate its negative impact.”

Gerome regarded him for a moment, his jaw set. He was unwilling to divulge too much to Laurent, lest he be pulled into revealing too much. Yet, something in him wanted to be honest. It was honesty that had saved them before, was it not?

“I dreamt about that day.” Laurent’s hand stilled as he tipped a spoonful of herbs into Gerome’s cup. Its dry mix clattered softly against ceramic, the only sound punctuating the following silence. Laurent’s gaze was directed at him but the candlelight reflected in his glasses once more, obscuring the look in his eyes. He continued. “It’s always the same. I’m on the battlefield again. There’s this…” He rubbed at his temple as he struggled to put it into words. “Like an echo of a scream. I feel it in my bones.” He dropped his hand, turning his face away from Laurent. He could still feel the intensity of his gaze. “And then I look beside me, and the person there is already dead.” He stopped himself from elaborating. What sort of reaction would he get if he admitted that it was Laurent’s ghost that kept him up most nights?

There was a clatter, thin metal striking wood. Then a press of warmth as Laurent reached out for him and held his hand.

“I am deeply sorry to hear that.” Gerome kept his eyes averted but he could not ignore the emotion in Laurent’s voice. “I was worried that the horrendous trials from that day would continue to impact you in your recovery.”

“It’s nothing serious.” Gerome replied steadily. “It just means I sleep less on some nights than others.” He purposefully left out that he has this dream most nights. Laurent was unconvinced regardless.

“I cannot help but wonder if there is some way to lessen the severity or frequency of it.” Laurent paused for a moment in thought. “Perhaps you might consider talking—”

“No.” Gerome said suddenly. “Not yet.” His fingernails dug into the wood of the table.

“My apologies. I did not mean to push you.” Laurent’s voice softened, apologetic. “I only wish to be of aid to you. Whatever I can do to alleviate the burden, please let me know.” He squeezed Gerome’s hand and leaned forward. As he neared, the light slid from his lenses and revealed his eyes clearly. His expression was painfully sincere.

“You’re too kind.” Gerome said on impulse. His voice was not sharp with reprimand, however, but as soft as the touch they now shared. Laurent continued to lean towards him and for a moment they regarded one another in the candlelight. It would be easy, he realized, to close the distance between them.

“I worry about you, Gerome.” His words were a whisper, meant only to be heard in the shared world that they now occupied. Had he exhaled in the same moment as Laurent spoke, he would have missed the admission. But he did not miss it, nor did he miss the way Laurent’s eyes caught his own with an unclear question. Gerome was overcome with the potential of the next few seconds, of what he wished he could do. Laurent paused, searching his face for something. A reaction, or perhaps confirmation? Gerome did not know what he wanted, uncertain in how he should respond to Laurent’s closeness and terrified that he was misreading his intentions.

After a charged moment, he began to move ever so slightly forward, trusting at last in his desire when the creak of that same loose floorboard startled him out of it. He heard heavy footfalls and sighed when he swung around and saw the culprit: Owain, sleepily yawning from across the room. “Good evening, friends. Have I happened across a fated meeting between comrades?”

“Ah, no not exactly.” Laurent called to him, though his voice was awkward with the sudden shift in tone. Gerome pulled his hand away, carefully returning to their normal distance. “We just couldn’t sleep. I’m making some tea.”

“Ah!” Owain padded over to the table and pulled out a seat. “Could I have some?”

As Laurent hurried to accommodate him, Gerome patted his hand. “Let him have mine. I’m headed off to bed, I think.” Before Laurent could question his departure, he stood from his chair and nodded at Owain curtly. When he returned to his quarters, his door shutting with a quick snap, he let out a gasp of breath he had long been holding. He held his burning face in his hands, wondering how much Laurent had seen, how much he now knew.

* * *

The following morning, Gerome canceled his appointment with Laurent. He would not dare face him after the spectacle of their late-night meeting. Instead, Gerome intentionally sought out Nah. “I need your help with something.”

“What?” She crossed her arms. Her tone was only slightly hostile and her expression was downright neutral. He continued undeterred.

“I would like to pray to Naga.” Gerome said bluntly. “Could you show me how?”

“Uh, sure. But why would you want to do that?” Nah looked at him skeptically. “You should only pray if you’re truly devout.”

“I understand that.” His shoulders rose, but he maintained an even tone. “I would not consider myself particularly religious. But I intend to thank her for her role in our final battle.”

Nah shrugged. “That’s a good enough reason, I guess. Let’s see…Well there’s a cathedral in the main square, but that’s more for worshipping the exalt. If you want to specifically contact Naga, I usually visit the shrine on the outskirts of the city.”

She showed him the way that afternoon. It was a pleasant walk up the crest of a hill. The shrine was sheltered beneath a willow tree. It was well tended with a fresh offering of flowers sitting upon its small altar.

“So you just kneel before the shrine,” Nah demonstrated by lowering herself to her knees. “Clasp your hands and focus your thoughts on Naga. Some people like to pray with scripture, but you can also just treat it like a conversation in your head.”

“I see.” Gerome was not much for conversing, but he decided to give it a try regardless. He owed Naga a debt greater than he could ever hope to repay. Offering his thanks was the least he could do. He lowered himself to the ground and pressed his hands together. He heard the crinkle of grass as Nah walked away, perhaps to give him space. Stiffly, he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

He remembered the last time he saw her as he laid before her altar. His limbs had been aching with the pain of many battles by that point. She had dried his tears, her voice soft as she gifted him his memories. From her, he acquired the tools he needed to dismantle the trap of fate which had ensnared Laurent time and time again. In the surreal blue light, he had recognized a goddess benevolent. So kneeling before her shrine, he racked his brain for words to properly voice his gratitude.

 _Naga,_ he thought. _I thank you for your efforts in our battle facing Grima. Without your aid, we would have lost much more. I…_

He halted, feeling stupid. It was odd to just _think_ of what to say to a divine presence. He continued to try, nonetheless.

_You helped me save the life of my dearest friend. I owe you a debt that I fear I may never repay. If there is anything I can do to return your favor, let me know._

He wondered distantly if he should sign off more formally, but decided that was good enough. As he moved to unclasp his hands, he felt a shiver along the back of his neck. A whisper drifted by his ear, almost blending into the breeze with its softness.

 _Live_ , Naga replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m not sure if War Monk Morgan is an odd way to class him, but my first playthrough I s-supported Libra (10/10, love him). That made Morgan’s class priest and I kept him on that track because I was a coward afraid of reclassing units in my first run. Anyway, I hope that wasn’t a weird choice for the story, I just vaguely associate him with healing now lmao. (to clarify, Morgan’s dad is Chrom in this story, it’s a lil all over the place I know)
> 
> I chose Varren as the name for the Ylissean trio’s dad because I could not find any source for his name. It’s based on the name of the preceding Emperor lineage from the Goblin Emperor (if you’re familiar with that book, I respect you).


	4. harmonize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he recalled the despair he felt weeks ago, when the only the light that sparked before him were flashes of dark magic from the Grimleal. He remembered the fear which pushed him from moment to moment of that unending hell. And it was only now that he felt truly ready to step away from that darkness and forward, towards his new present. He walked into the lighted hall with a steady resolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Virion Gerome’s dad in this story for a specific reason (that has something to do with his dynamic as Gerome’s father and also a little bit to do with how plot happens, just trust me on this one). There will be discussion of Virion/Cherche from Virion's perspective so heads up for that. ALSO chapter four, I’m so excited to share this one!

The next morning, Gerome accompanied his mother to the wyvern’s roost. In Ylisse, wyvern riders were somewhat of a novelty. It was a far more common practice across the sea, in Rosanne and Valm. However, there was space here allocated for their wyverns specifically by Chrom’s order. A roost that had previously been used for visiting pegasus knights and griffon riders was now reserved for them. Wyverns tended to be more territorial, so their roosts had to be limited to their own kind.

Cherche led him before the imposing structure of smooth brick. Like much else in the city, it was painted in white and trimmed with gold. They ascended the stairs and Gerome reflected on how out of place Minerva looked in such a prim setting. When he saw his beloved wyvern, he could not contain himself. He strode quickly to her side, placing his hand gently to her grizzled neck.

“Hello there, Minervykins.” Gerome smiled, all thoughts of pride or dignity gone in this reunion. It was not the first time he had visited her since waking from his coma, but each time he saw her again he was filled with the same joy. She growled gently at him and lightly brushed his fingers with the edge of her snout. Her tail swung from side to side, and he knew she was just as happy as he was. His mother hung back with her arms crossed and fondness in her gaze. She waited to tease him over the affectionate exchange until their walk back from the roost.

“Don’t mind it.” Gerome said indignantly.

Cherche chuckled. “I find it cute, you know. You care for Minerva, much the same as I do. I’m glad you two have each other.”

Gerome angled his face away as he answered. “I am too.”

“What are your plans?” She sounded wary. Gerome glanced back at her from where he strode. He was several paces ahead of her, the discomfort of embarrassment spurring his steps forward. Realizing himself, he slowed his pace and fell into step with her once again.

He pursed his lips as he considered how to reply. “I will return to Wyvern Valley with Minerva when I am able. That is the only place where I can see myself residing happily.”

“Are you sure you won’t be lonely?” She was only asking out of concern, he could tell. He fought back the urge to snap at her, to say _I learned to manage solitude well enough in your absence_. But she was not the same woman who deserted him in the future. Her presence now was evidence enough that she cared. He would try to meet her halfway this time.

“I will be fine with Minerva’s companionship.” He confirmed and it was not a lie.

“Have you not considered inviting a partner to accompany you?” Her voice took on teasing air. “You know, you and Laurent seem quite close.”

“I’m not discussing this with you.” Gerome snapped his face away from her gaze, though he knew she caught the rise of blush along his cheekbones. She chuckled into her palm.

“Oh yes, I’m sure friends often visit each other daily in the infirmary.” She patted his shoulder lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it to myself.”

Gerome grunted because that was the closest he could manage to an intelligible response. Cherche was good at reading him, despite their short time together. She took it as a positive thing, instead opting to change the subject.

“Your father and I plan to return to Rosanne soon. We would love to show you around the area if that is something you might like. As a visit, of course.”

“I…” He hesitated, unwilling to commit. “I will consider it. Thank you.”

Something between them eased. With his parents from the past, Gerome had always felt on edge. He took great pains to draw a line in the sand, to say he would only care so much before pushing them away. Lately, he’s been more relaxed about such concerns. The war was over after all. It was his chance to live, or at least to figure out what a peaceful life might look like for him. He realized that it might be enjoyable to learn more about his parents since he now had the chance. It was not the same as reuniting with his real parents, who were long deceased. But these people were his parents in a sense, bonded to him as family in a distant yet familiar way. He would not avoid the opportunity to spend more time with them, he decided.

As he was mulling this over in his mind, he felt a light touch along his shoulder. Cherche smiled at him with that sad look she always wore when matters such as these came up. “You’re always welcome with us. Just so you know.”

Gerome huffed a sigh but did not lean away from her touch. “Yes, I am coming to learn that.”

“Good.” The smile she gave was genuine and Gerome managed to return it sincerely enough.

* * *

Gerome grumbled as the excited voices of other shepherds filtered in from the hallway. Great bounding steps knocked against the floor, breaking what little peace he tried to regain after being so abruptly disturbed from sleep. He sighed and dragged himself from bed. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, the soft hue of morning a blue expanse stained with rosy pink hues.

Today marked a little over two weeks since his discharge from the infirmary. He still had made little progress on the situation with Laurent, but that was due to routine more than reluctance. He had fallen into rhythm of sorts here, one which led to days passing by filled with the mundane. He kept waiting for another grand opportunity in which he would stumble upon Laurent, perhaps in the dead of night, staying up late in the foyer working on some research. He had squandered his chance days ago and the regret of his inaction burned in his throat. Should he stumble across Laurent in similar moment of privacy, he would risk a step and drop his proposal at the other’s feet, an overdue question weighted by fearful uncertainty. And whatever answer he received, he would accept it.

Except, Laurent was never in the foyer at the right time. Or he was there but not alone. And when Gerome stumbled to a halt, considering if this was his chance, his throat swelled with dread at the gravity of what he was about to say. The barrier between friends and something more rose to his vision with an alarming force. His heart stumbled into a nervous rhythm and he could no more stutter out a “good evening” than his confession. The moment would stretch with his hesitation, anxiety thick in the air. And Gerome would turn away with a wave and curse his ineptitude a few moments later, when he reached his room and closed his door with a snap.

He sighed as he dressed for the day. Acclimating to day clothes was another part of civilian life which did not suit him well. His wardrobe was meant for war. His day clothes were the outfits he could construct from what he used to wear beneath his armor (though he was still exclusively banned from wearing the full weight of his armor until approved by Libra’s examination). For today, he slid on a dark blue shirt, coupled with black trousers. In their original future, black had been the most effective color to wear during battle. Blending into the shadows was a blessing and the dark shade of his clothes assured that he could match Minerva’s black scales. And in truth, he preferred darker clothing.

Now, walking through the luminous streets of Ylisstol, he felt like a shadow trapped in a storybook. Everything around him was vibrant, colorful, brimming with life. In comparison, he was wraithlike and bland, outlined in the deep shades of his attire. He felt like he stood out when beside the others from his time. So many of them adapted to life outside of war with less trouble. And then there was him, still clinging to his old clothes and waiting for the day when he could leave. At least he can still wear his mask with little comment.

He stepped from his room and scanned the hallway, trying to figure out what all the ruckus was over. A small crowd of shepherds stood in the common area at the end of the hall. As he neared, he saw that Sumia was holding a letter. She was just clearing her voice to read it when Gerome reached the common room, leaning on the edge of the doorframe.

“We have found Robin in the Ylissean countryside. She has no memory of what happened, aside from her own name and Chrom’s. Otherwise, she’s in good health.”

The room filled with excited chatter from all sides as each person rushed to declare their mirth. Gerome blinked calmly and left through the front door, careful to close it with a light hand. The others were too enveloped in the joy of Robin’s return to notice his departure. Gerome later learned that they would arrive to Ylisstol in five days’ time and intended to hold a ball celebrating the return of the Exalt and his wife.

The following days were filled with bustling excitement, as nearly every shepherd rushed to participate in the preparations. Gerome of course was roped into helping by the combined effort of Lucina and Laurent, who assigned him to help decorate the grand entrance hall of the palace. He begrudgingly accepted his task, accompanied by Noire, who was an anxious but pleasant enough partner.

The days passed by in a rush, leaving Gerome feeling more than a little panicked at his dwindling time. The day that Robin returned marked his third week free from bedrest.

He visited Libra that morning, his heart heavy with dread. Sure enough, he was approved to leave the same day if he desired. He could bear his armor once again and ride Minvera towards Valm, like he had originally set out to do many months ago. On the surface, the only thing keeping him in Ylisstol was the last celebration to herald Robin’s return.

He, of course, was filled with unease over the whole affair.

Wandering aimlessly from the infirmary, he headed for his mother’s quarters. He knew that she would want to know the status of his recovery. As he neared her door, however, it was not her voice which he heard floating from her room, but the lilting hum of his father. Virion was heartily arranging a bouquet on her desk.

He tried to retreat in time, but his boot caught on the doorframe. At the sound of his gasp, his father noticed him.

“Oh, Gerome! Lovely to see you. Did you need something?”

“Father.” He never got along with his father in this time. In the past, he remembered Virion as a man with careful hands and trilling words, always guiding him towards the dream of restoring Rosanne to its former status. However, his father was also an unreliable parent who died far from him along with Cherche. Despite his best efforts to forgive their past selves for the mistakes from that future, he still felt bitterness leak through his encounters with them. It was often worse with Virion. He regarded his father stiffly, continuing in a measured tone. “I was looking for mother.”

“Oh she’s out running errands for the ball. Some last minute acquisitions apparently. If you wait for a bit, she should be back soon enough.”

Gerome’s jaw tightened. It was no secret that Gerome loved his parents in the way one loves temporary things – as distantly and infrequently as possible. But he was feeling lost. And he remembered the times when he ran to his father for help. After he twisted his ankle as a child, his father did not hesitate to dirty the lapel of his exquisitely crafted coat as he knelt to comfort him. Gerome recalled how he had carried him home, arms wrapped tightly around him as if he were falling apart and Virion was trying to hold him together with just his grasp. When he was stuck on a word in his grammar lessons, his father had insisted on helping him one step at a time. He had been a surprisingly patient teacher, eager to repeat the same concept multiple times over so that Gerome could understand it. He wondered if this Virion was capable of support like his true father had been.

“There is…something I want to ask of you, actually.” He said cautiously, hoping that to seek help was not a mistake.

“Oh? Do tell.” Virion turned to face him fully, hands settling on his hips.

“I…” Gerome felt himself growing red as he considered how to broach the subject. “How did you court mother?”

“Ah, curious over love are we?” Virion said in that insufferable voice, and Gerome had to suppress the urge to sprint down the hallway. His father brought a hand up to his chin, sighing wistfully. “Well, let’s see…upon meeting your mother, I was entranced by her beauty and strength –”

“You don’t need to convince me that you only had eyes for her.” He interrupted. “I’ve heard talk of your past conduct around camp.”

“Ah, well, you see, my status had much to do with my past behavior.” Virion explained with a matter-of-fact tone. “I must keep interested parties interested and all that. But after I realized my feelings for your mother, it was her and solely her for whom I had eyes for.”

“Okay,” Gerome crossed his arms. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Patience, my son!” Virion pulled out a seat from Cherche’s desk and gestured for him to sit down. Gerome sat with an awkward rigidity, his arms still tight across his chest. Virion sat on Cherche’s bed as primly as only his father could sit. “Now, for your mother I wanted to do something special. You see, she and I shared a bond like none other. She was with me as we evacuated the citizens of Rosanne during Walhart’s conquest. She even stayed behind to hold the front line and give me time to direct the refugees.”

“Right.” Gerome was watching him closely. He had never heard the details of his parent’s time in Rosanne. He only knew vaguely of the culture he grew up with. Hearing his father recount it now filled him with an odd curiosity towards that place. He had long accepted that Rosanne would remain a gap in his personal history after his parents’ deaths.

“To honor her, and that unique bond which she and I share, I decided to propose with the engagement ring inherited from my family. I waited until an opportunity for privacy, and I offered her my heart with the utmost care!” Virion smiled warmly at the memory.

“You did not court her, then?”

“Oh, I tried. She would not have it, however. She and I knew one another long before, first as lord and vassal, and then as friends standing on equal ground. We knew each other too well for such things, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “Merely attempting to compliment her was often met with skepticism, so the conventional approach was not a feasible option.”

“Was she averse to your affections?” Gerome was curious now. He hadn’t expected the story of his parents’ marriage to sound so… _flawed_. The couple he remembered from the future were a powerful match, perfectly in sync from his perspective.

“She was not averse so much as cautious.” Virion admitted, wringing his hands together with an uncharacteristic roughness. “And I admit, I gave her every reason to criticize. My behavior, especially as the young lord of Rosanne, was most unbecoming. In all honesty, I am indebted to her for her forgiveness.”

“But why? Why would you seek to win the heart of someone who knew you like that?” Gerome frowned.

“Precisely because love is, in part, a choice. I had many options to choose from for a spouse, as did your mother. I chose her because I felt like no other person knew me, truly, as she did. And in all our time together, she has been a reliable companion. Her dependability remained staunch, even during the hardest times in my life. In truth, I wanted to be there for her too, as she had been for me many times prior.” His voice softened and the previous drama of his words mellowed with sincerity. “She was my most loyal ally and a truly honest friend. I suppose that is what drew me to her, in the end. Our friendship was so natural after her vassalage to House Virion dissolved. She remained by my side through it all.”

Gerome bit his lip. His father’s words reminded him of the hardest moments of his own life. He remembered the final fight against Grima again, how he lived through each hellish moment with Laurent beside him. He would not have wished for any other person to go through that with.

“Is that it then? Choosing the person that none other could replace?”

“Yes!” Virion clapped lightly. “The person with whom you share a most unique bond.”

“I see.” Gerome noticed his father was gazing at him intently. “What?”

“Well, go on! Tell me about this person. You’re clearly thinking of someone.”

“Father…”

“Which lovely lady has caught your eye? Is it Noire? Or perhaps Lucina?”

“I can tell you who it is.” Gerome cut in stiffly. “But hold your tongue if you are surprised. Are we clear?”

“Alright! I promise, my dear boy. Go on!”

Gerome took a deep breath. “I have feelings for Laurent. My combat partner and best friend.”

“Ah.” Instead of the frown Gerome was expecting, Virion smiled delicately. “That makes sense.”

“What?”

“Well, falling for your partner in combat and closest friend?” He slapped Gerome’s shoulder with a laugh. “You’re more like your father than you care to recognize.”

“Father, that is—” Gerome felt his face heating with embarrassment. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ah, perhaps to you. But I can accept that.” Virion winked at him.

“You’re not going to fuss over me falling for a man?” Gerome asked, a challenge in his voice.

“No, not at all.” Virion waved his hand before his face in a quick motion. “I’m not so cold-hearted as to judge you when you finally allow vulnerability in my presence! And I’ll have you know, before I married your mother, I fell for men as well as women!”

“Father…” Gerome bowed his head, covering his face. Now he was blushing over Virion’s brashness. “I did not need to know those details.”

“I merely wanted to put you at ease. It would be hypocritical of me to criticize your preferences.” Virion sighed, looking a bit downcast. “I apologize for my earlier assumptions. I should have tempered my excitement.”

“It’s fine.” Gerome’s shoulders rose in tension as he considered his next words. “The problem is…I have found confessing my affections…unexpectedly difficult.”

“Yes,” Virion said knowingly. “It is the affections we hold most deeply which are the hardest to voice. You fear rejection, I take it?”

Gerome nodded, feeling guilt from the admission.

“It is okay to be afraid.” Virion touched Gerome’s shoulder and he allowed it. “But you know, you will never have the chance to see if your feelings are returned should you remain silent. Though it is safer, it may prove unhappier in the end.”

“I recognize that.” Gerome balled his hands into fists. “I think I just have too much attached to his answer. I fear that if he rejects me, our friendship might not recover.”

“That’s a valid concern. It is up to you, whether the risk is worth it in the end.” Virion’s voice was reassuring, and Gerome felt at once a rush of gratitude towards him. Frivolous as he was, his father was every bit as compassionate as he remembered.

Gerome finally exhaled and moved to leave. “I must be going. We have that ball to prepare for.”

“You’re planning on attending?” Virion asked, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “How delightful! Shall I help you find the proper attire?”

“I was merely going to wear my day clothes.” Virion’s grin dropped at those words.

“Oh, certainly not!” Virion cried, grabbing his elbow and tugging him from his seat. “If you are to attend, you should do so in the _proper_ attire! Come, we must hasten to my quarters! I have just the thing!” And that’s how Gerome found himself pulled down the hall and into his father’s room. He learned that his father and mother roomed separately because Virion just had so many things. The extra room was necessary for storage.

Virion dove into his wardrobe, yanking clothes from its depths with a vigorous intent. “Now, where is it? I know I just had it lying around – Ah ha!” He pulled a deep blue dress coat out and placed it on his bed. It was emblazoned with delicate silver patterns which danced in an elegant swirl across each side. “This garment bears the traditional colors of Rosanne. It’s an heirloom left to me from my father.”

He quickly found a dark dress shirt to pair with it, as well as black trousers. “How does this look? Acceptably drab for you?” His voice brimmed with affection and sarcasm in equal measure.

Gerome’s lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. “Close enough.” He surveyed the clothes carefully. “Are you sure that you’re alright with me taking such valuable possessions? I am perfectly fine attending in my usual attire.”

“No, no that simply will not do! I have to help my son to the best of my ability!” Virion proclaimed. “And I daresay, with such fine attire, you will look most dashing! Perhaps you will catch the eye of your beloved?”

“I…” Gerome coughed in embarrassment, unsure how to phrase his words. “Thank you, father.”

“Not at all. And if you were wondering,” Virion patted his back with a wink. “If you want to offer the ring of House Virion that was passed down to you from your mother, I give you my blessing.”

Those words dislodged something heavy in Gerome’s chest. He had never expected to hear endorsements from either of his parents over his decisions. Especially in matters of the heart, which he tried to keep as discreet as possible. The shock of it caught him by surprise, and without warning Gerome blinked dumbly before realizing that his face was wet with tears. “Ah.” He slid his mask off, wiping them away quickly. “Don’t mind it, I just…”

“Hey, it’s okay my boy.” Virion rubbed his shoulder lightly, a fondness in his tone. “You don’t need to hide it from me.”

“I was long resigned to never hear such words from my father after losing him.” He admitted. “I apologize, I did not expect the…” He sighed as he dabbed at his eyes. “I did not anticipate such undue kindness.”

“Not mere kindness,” Virion smiled. “Just the love of a father who wants the best for his son.”

Those words did nothing to stem the flow of tears down Gerome’s face.

* * *

The hour of the ball grew near, and for once Gerome felt appropriately prepared for such an event. He wore the coat gifted to him by his father, along with the accompanying pieces to “accent its delicate tastes,” as Virion had phrased it. However, prepared as he was, nothing could quell the rising fear in his chest as he approached the castle walls. Behind those doors stood his chance to finally risk the truth.

Considering how desperately he had fought for this future he now inhabited, he was surprised that it had taken him so long to broach the topic. But concerns of the heart felt different in times of peace as opposed to times of war. In the midst of battle, he would imagine what might lie beyond the swing of his axe, in the time after bloodshed and war’s conclusion. In the soft days of peace, however, he was wrapped in layers of comfort and leisure. Though the pace of hours spent unhindered by training unsettled him, it also eased him into a routine of idleness. To share with Laurent his heart, he would have to risk sincerity over his newfound comfort. And tonight, perhaps he could find the courage.

Before the marble gates of the Ylissean palace, he hesitated. Around him, guests streamed in eye-catching attire, bright shades of color which contrasted vividly against the white marble walls. Light spilled out in golden brilliance from the entrance hall, and the brightness nearly discouraged him altogether. He far preferred the gentle light of the moon, or, if he yearned for brightness, perhaps the sun’s warmth in the late afternoon. The irradiance of magical lights throughout the palace left him feeling like a ghost caught at the break of dawn, washed out by its splendor.

He felt foolish for standing in the dark before the palace steps for such a long moment. Sighing, his hand slipped into his pocket and thumbed the sheet of parchment tucked away.

“Should you forget your words in the moment,” Virion had said with his finger raised like an overly enthusiastic instructor, “write out the gist of it beforehand. That way, if all else fails, you can quickly glance at it should you find the chance. I know you have trouble voicing your thoughts in the moment.”

His father had been correct in that observation and yet it annoyed him all the same. Now, faced with the overwhelming challenge ahead, he was somewhat comforted by the sheet of paper. He did not want his truth to be scripted, but he also knew himself to be a fool with words. Considering that Laurent was adept at speaking in the moment, Gerome felt even further out of his depth.

“How does one phrase a love confession?” Gerome had asked his father, his face reddened in embarrassment. Virion jumped to life, excitement punctuating his every word.

“I consider myself an expert on matters of the heart! Allow me to explain.”

He hurried to a nearby bookshelf, pulling down book after book of poetry. They spent some time pouring over the texts while Virion lectured Gerome about word choice and analogy and clever turns of phrase. His head filled with snippets of love poems, Gerome did his best to write out what he felt for Laurent. It was comforting, in a way, to be able to write out words until they made sense. Gerome hated talking in the moment deeply. He wished he could edit his words in real time with the same thoughtfulness he achieved in writing.

Virion had chuckled at his intensity as he scribbled across the page.

“What’s so funny?” Gerome’s quill stilled as he glanced at him.

“Have you ever thought of keeping a journal?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You seem to enjoy it.” Virion pointed out. “You were smiling just then.”

“I—” Gerome was indignant. “I was not!”

“Right. Perhaps a trick of the light, then.” Virion pressed his fist to his mouth to stifle another laugh.

Gerome grumbled as he returned quill to parchment. “I like being able to choose how to say something. It’s easier than speaking.”

“I understand that sentiment. You know, many of the best writers make for terrible public speakers. Sometimes, a person is better suited to say things on the page than in person.” Virion’s tone was encouraging. Recalling it now made Gerome feel oddly comforted.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he was still afraid to spill his heart out before Laurent. He did not know for sure if his words would be accepted in the way he hoped. But he recalled the despair he felt weeks ago, when the only the light that sparked before him were flashes of dark magic from the Grimleal. He remembered the fear which pushed him from moment to moment of that unending hell. And it was only now that he felt truly ready to step away from that darkness and forward, towards his new present. He walked into the lighted hall with a steady resolve.

“Gerome!” A sugary voice called and he recognized Inigo striding beside him. “Care to be my wingman while I pick up some ladies?”

“I’m busy,” he muttered, instead scanning the ballroom for a familiar shade of brown hair or the glint of glasses.

“Aw, c’mon live a little! It’ll be fun, I promise.” He winked at him, a carefully arranged smile stretched across his face.

Gerome scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not in the mood for shenanigans tonight.”

“Oh, it won’t take too long, I assure you!” Inigo wrapped his arm around Gerome’s in a gesture verging on too friendly. He pulled his stoic companion along with a surprising strength. Had this occurred in any space except for the grand halls of the Ylissean palace, Gerome would have thrown his arm off with a clipped remark. But this was the night that he absolutely could not mess up, not even with an outburst between himself and Inigo. So he bit his tongue as Inigo led him to the fray of prospective dance partners.

He regretted his decision as events continued to spiral out of his control. Despite his silence, women flocked to him with an unsettling intensity. He finally accepted one of their hands for a dance to escape the startling focus of their affections. Gerome noticed the sour expression on Inigo’s face, as his friend struggled to find even one interested party. It was fair, considering that he unwittingly had attracted far more willing dance partners, but he just wished he could swap places with the man. He would much rather be left to his own devices.

To the next song, he grasped the hand of a perfectly adequate maiden with braided orange hair. She was quiet like him, a mutual trait he thanked Naga for. Holding her hand, he began to lead her through the steps of a waltz. He racked his brain for the correct pattern, trying to remember the drills his true father had ran him through when etiquette had been on the agenda for their lessons. Whatever dance he ended up performing seemed acceptable enough, judging by his partner’s neutral reaction. He was not making a wide array of mistakes and that was good enough for him. As they moved, he was able to correct his positioning and steps by observing the swaying couples around them.

During the dance, he could not help but grow bored. Looking over the shoulder of his partner, he finally found the person he was looking for. Laurent met his gaze from the edge of the ballroom. He was in the middle of a conversation with Brady and Noire, but his eyes were trained on Gerome. He wore a deep green dress coat trimmed with gold. A significant white collar spilled from his neckline, cutting the rich colors with a smooth contrast. He had left behind his beloved mage hat and instead wore his chestnut hair neatly parted. At the sight of his companion in such unfamiliar fashion, Gerome was slightly off put. He was thankful that his mask hid his expression.

When their gazes met, Laurent gave him a faint smile and turned to continue chatting with the others. The distance between them made Gerome’s chest tighten, and he had to remind himself not to break away from his dance partner in that exact moment. The time it took for the song to end was excruciating. At the last echo of the orchestra’s instruments, he dropped his partner’s hand and gave her a slight nod as farewell. In his haste, he slipped past Inigo, who actually let him go on without remark. But by the time he reached Brady and Noire, Laurent had already left.

“He went out for a breath of fresh air, I think?” Brady scratched his chin. “Back that way.”

Gerome followed his directions around the back of the ballroom, turning down a darkened side hallway. Distant chords of the next orchestral piece drifted from the grand hall behind him. He strode down the tall, empty corridor, his footsteps echoing in the shadows. He recognized the familiar silhouette of his companion leaned against a balcony overlooking the palace gardens. The moon was half covered by shadow, but still it cast the scene in a delicate glow. Laurent turned to face him as he approached. Curiously, surprise graced his face.

“I did not expect to see you here.” Laurent said quietly. His voice was tense.

“I wanted to make a brief appearance at least.” Gerome neared Laurent cautiously, halting a few paces away. “May I join you?”

Laurent’s initial tension dissolved as he gave Gerome a smile. “You know I always appreciate your presence.”

Gerome did not expect the shock of anticipation which coursed through his fingertips at his reply. Such words were not unknown between them—they occasionally voiced gratitude over time shared. However, hearing them from Laurent when he was exquisitely dressed and dappled by the moon’s dim glow did terrible things to his heart. He struggled to pull himself together as he stepped beside him.

Gripping the handrail of the balcony, he was comforted to find it achingly cold. The discomfort should serve to ground him. For a moment, neither of them said a word. Laurent was the first to break the silence, speaking before Gerome could figure out how to begin.

“You looked like you weren’t enjoying that dance very much.”

It was a careful statement but Gerome sensed the detachment in his voice.

“The result of Inigo’s meddling, nothing more.” Gerome snorted. “I accepted a dance partner as a tactical surrender.”

Laurent chuckled at his reply. “Yes, it seemed that way.” He was relaxed now, his voice warmer. “I hope such trivialities have not turned you away from the festivities entirely.”

“No, I think there’s more yet to enjoy.” Gerome said, more boldly than he expected of himself. The rising melody in the ballroom could be heard from where they stood. Something in the swell of music compelled him to breach the distance further. “If I cared to dance with anyone, I would hope it to be someone closer to me.”

“Oh?” Laurent was intrigued. “Has someone caught your eye?”

“Perhaps.” Gerome managed in a low murmur, leaning imperceptibly closer. “Would you by any chance care for a dance?”

“Out here?” His friend tilted his head in amusement.

“Privacy is a virtue many take for granted. And the music is still audible if you listen closely.” Gerome recognized that he was grasping at straws, but he maintained a facade of confidence. He even extended his hand in the manner he had been taught for the invitation of dance. Laurent eyed him skeptically for a moment. Gerome’s breath caught in his chest, but he refused to falter. And then Laurent’s eyes softened as a smile rose to his face. He accepted his hand.

At the touch of his friend’s bare palm against his own, Gerome nearly jumped. He had not expected such smooth agreement, but together they stood. The contrast of the previous chill he rested his hand upon to the warmth of Laurent’s skin brought with it an almost unbearable heat. His fingers tingled at the contact.

As he slipped his hand to settle near Laurent’s hip, he could not suppress the rising pink along his cheeks. His other hand slid into Laurent’s hold with a surprising ease. With their fingers intertwined, he felt a rush of emotion bloom in his chest. This was perhaps the happiest he had felt in months. It almost left him lightheaded with the realization. He merely hoped the dim light and his mask were enough to hide his obvious embarrassment. He stumbled to begin his waltzing routine. Luckily, the prior dance had jogged some of his memory regarding the proper steps. He was able to lead Laurent well enough, considering how his heart stammered over the contact between palm and palm, hand to waist.

“You know your steps,” Laurent commented as he kept pace.

“I learned a thing or two from my etiquette-obsessed father. This was one skill he drilled into me more than others.” Gerome said with a distant affection. “I am glad to see it paying off at least.”

Laurent looked like he wanted to ask more, but the sway of their dance diverted his attention. Gerome pulled him closer, hand settling more firmly on his waist. He felt Laurent shiver as his fingers brushed along his side. His friend’s expression, however, was inscrutable.

“Are you okay?” He asked, trying to keep the shyness from his voice.

“Splendid, actually. This is quite rapturous.” At his reply, Gerome noticed the way his eyes lit up with fervor. He was unused to dancing, perhaps, but still deeply engaged in the moment. It was his own anxiety that was masking his understanding of the situation, Gerome realized. “Are you doing well?” Laurent relayed the question with an uncertain tone.

“Yes, I’m enjoying this a lot.” Gerome’s mouth was dry so his words sounded almost like a croak. But they were true and Laurent accepted them with a smile.

With that, he grew more intentional as a lead. His hand guided their next steps as the music rose in volume from down the hall. Its echo enveloped them in an otherworldly bliss. They gravitated closer with each note of music, until Gerome’s chest bumped lightly against Laurent’s. Yet, it did not break the intensity they shared.

As they kept pace, words fell away and were replaced with motion. They moved in a mutual arc, their steps synchronized along the same charged path. Gerome’s gaze held Laurent’s and for a moment, the tender expression on his companion’s face was all that he saw. Musical notes faded and instead they were connected by the tenuous bonds of touch between hands and waist and chest. Gerome considered breaking their rhythm for a moment, risking a brush of his lips against Laurent’s. But as they swayed with a frenetic energy, he returned to his senses. The music picked up and so too did the speed of their dance.

The rising cry of strings spurred the course of their steps. Gerome extended his arm, bringing Laurent away and then gently tugging him close. His arms encircled him for a moment and his breath caught in his chest. Then, they resumed the usual position once more. Their rhythm steadied, their steps became more fluid, and they moved in complete harmony. The music crashed towards its finale with a staccato string of notes. With each turn, they grew closer until Gerome’s nose was brushing Laurent’s cheek. They froze as the piano trilled its final cry, Laurent’s eyes wide with surprise. Gerome knew his own face must have given away some amount of his passion, but he did not falter.

“May I kiss you?” He asked, his voice a faint rumble. His heart almost cracked open then and there, it was beating so fast. For a moment, they were perfectly still, balanced on the precipice of Gerome’s request. He felt Laurent inhale slightly, and then the soft press of lips against his own.

If Laurent’s touch had shocked him before, it set his nerves alight in this moment. Laurent sighed into his embrace, and Gerome felt his own stiff posture melt in turn. He pulled his companion closer, arms circling around him firmly. They were pressed so closely together, Gerome felt he might break from the ecstasy of it. His heart stammered and all thoughts flew from his mind save for one name: _Laurent_.

Then he felt Laurent’s lips leave his own, pressing against his neck. His breath hitched and he felt his pulse pound out a reckless beat. He had no idea his neck was so sensitive, that those sensations could elicit such a response from him and yet, he craved it. Gerome chased Laurent’s lips with his own, returning to their kiss with a renewed fervor. Tenderly, Laurent matched his intensity with each press of softness. Gerome felt an ache in his chest and assumed it was merely the same heartache he had felt for Laurent over months of pining. But when his head grew dizzy, he realized he had forgotten to breathe.

He broke away from the kiss, taking a rough breath. Laurent pressed his forehead to Gerome’s cheek to catch his breath as well. For a moment, the only sound was each of them breathing softly, still extraordinarily close. He was saddened when Laurent finally began to pull away. He loosened his grip, taking a step back himself in an attempt to appear as nonplussed as possible.

Laurent regarded him for a moment. “I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time,” he admitted in an even tone of voice. In the half light, Gerome could see the flush along his cheeks.

“Me too.” Gerome lowered his head, unable to hold Laurent’s gaze. “Laurent, I must confess something to you.”

“Oh?” Laurent stepped closer once more, and again they shared the same proximity which Gerome desired. He steeled himself however, to focus on the task before him. He slid off his mask, revealing his face in all of its vulnerability. Laurent blinked with surprise but said nothing.

“I have no need of this with you.” He said quietly as he tucked the mask away. He hesitated, remembering the thick parchment folded in the back of his pocket. One part of him thought he might need it to prevent himself from tripping over his words. But he knew its contents well. And if he extracted it from his pocket, he would break the delicate atmosphere of this moment. No, he needed to speak from his heart here.

He took a deep breath and began. “Laurent, in all honesty I have been in love with you for a long time.” At those words, his friend inhaled sharply. He continued, knowing that to falter would be his undoing. “I love you in a way that fate would look down upon. Though our lives are short and infallible things, I persist in my devotion to you. I love you as the moon chases the sun with each nightfall and break of dawn. I love you, Laurent, as a man who has foolishly set his heart upon his most dear friend.” In embarrassment, his eyes fell downward and focused on the floor. He struggled to complete his thoughts, and Laurent waited with gracious patience. “I hope that with this admission and my actions tonight serve as evidence enough of my intentions.”

He felt warmth close over his hand as Laurent held his clenched fist between his clasped hands. “Gerome,” he said with a voice clear as a bell. “This is the best thing I could have hoped to hear from you.”

It took several moments for Gerome to process the words. Before he could question it, Laurent continued.

“I have loved you for quite some time now. I only realized it recently, but I assure you my heart is as sincere as yours in every regard.” He gently squeezed Gerome’s hand between his own. “I had not expected my feelings to be returned with such depth. These past few weeks, you have seemed distant. Ever since that battle.”

“Yes.” Gerome confirmed. “We have not yet discussed the full details of what happened.”

“No, we have not.” Laurent said grimly. “What you said that day…you truly relived that battle countless times?”

He dipped his head into a nod. “I would prefer not to delve into the specifics. Needless to say, the experience was traumatic.”

“Of course.” Laurent agreed. “We can discuss that at length whenever you are ready. I merely wanted to express my gratitude. Thank you, Gerome. I understand that your efforts in no small part changed the course of my life.”

Gerome shook his head. “I was only able to do so by the grace of Naga. Direct your thanks there, where they are deserved.” He hesitated for a moment. “And I want to say this so that there is no question…my intentions in that battle were to aid you as my comrade. I am not hoping for any sort of reward. Just reaching the outcome we were able to is enough for me.”

“Right,” Laurent said, his thumb brushing over Gerome’s knuckles. “I was not expecting such a perspective from you regardless. I like to think I know you well, Gerome. Others can see your care, despite how you may try to hide it.”

Gerome scoffed. “I should hope you might have noticed my care by now. Shall I kiss you again? Would that suffice to show it clearly enough?”

Laurent could not hide his grin. “I would certainly not complain over another kiss, no.”

And, each smiling, they shared a kiss once more. This time, they met with a softness and comfort only found between the most trusting of partners. When they parted, their hands remained intertwined.

* * *

Gerome and Laurent departed for Valm a little over a week later. They were traveling by carriage, for now there was enough luggage between the two of them to necessitate such transport. Minerva was to fly overheard, staying just within their field of vision.

Before they left, their friends and parents bid them farewell. Miriel and Frederick each gave Laurent a personalized lecture to which he paid close attention. Cherche and Virion took a slightly different approach.

“Remember to write us.” Cherche said briskly as she fixed his collar. “We will be returning to Rosanne in the next few weeks. We would love for you two to visit us.”

Gerome nodded. “I can manage that.”

“We’re so very proud of you, son.” Virion said, patting his shoulder with the usual familiarity. This time, Gerome did not even feel the urge to flinch.

“Remember, we both love you.” Cherche told him gently. “If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to call upon us.”

“We will be by your side as soon as possible,” Virion confirmed with a wink.

He replied with a grunt because to voice the affection in his chest was too much. He wore his mask, but he knew that both of them could see through the flimsy barrier. It took all of his emotional willpower not to cry. When Cherche and Virion each leaned to give him a hug, he returned the gesture, if a little more stiffly.

Surprisingly enough, they were the first of their generation to depart from Ylisstol. The others gathered to send them off, but it was Lucina who escorted them to the city gates.

When they reached the outskirts of Ylisstol, they lingered in uneasy silence. Lucina broke the tension, gingerly approaching to give each of them a hug. “Please take care of each other out there.”

Laurent nodded, “Of course.”

“And you will keep in contact?”

“I promise,” Laurent confirmed. “I’ll send letters to give you all updates.”

Lucina looked content with that. “I’m happy you two are finding some peace of your own. I know you both were particularly overworked by this war. Please, rest.”

Gerome snorted. “If anyone needs some rest, it is you.”

“Yes, Lucina, you did push yourself quite hard all this time.” Laurent chimed in. “Can you assure us that you will also seek respite?”

“I…” Lucina gulped. “I plan on traveling, with Kjelle. Perhaps Severa and Noire as well. We are taking our time on the details however.”

“That sounds lovely.” Laurent placed his hand over Lucina’s.

“If you find yourself in the mood to visit,” Gerome said, “We could host you, if you want.” He was not sure where his boldness stemmed from, but he meant the offer sincerely.

Lucina beamed. “I will keep that mind,” she said with a warmth that each of them felt.

They boarded the carriage, and Lucina waited to see them off. They saw her waving figure fade into the distance, and the separation finally felt real. It would be odd, Gerome realized, to not see his other comrades on a near daily basis. He was not concerned if he would feel lonely, however.

His thumb traced over the side of Laurent’s arm. The two were rarely seen without their hands intertwined nowadays. In this moment, however, he would have to settle for holding his arm, as Laurent now grasped the reigns for their horses. Gerome was a person who loved touch, and he secretly enjoyed Laurent’s habit of holding on to him whenever possible. In the days following their successive confessions, they had leaned into a relationship as easily as donning a warm cardigan. The shift from friends to lovers was like relaxing into a hug. It was a natural, beautiful thing that followed with a sense of relief.

Gerome wondered why it had taken him so long to voice the emotions he long kept hidden. He knew that fear and cowardice were to blame. Naga’s favor had helped him on the battlefield, but in matters of romance, he did not expect a second chance. He had wanted to play it safe, and in the end, it had worked out.

He relaxed next to Laurent now, leaning his head on his shoulder. From this angle, he could see the curve of Laurent’s mouth deepen into a smile. He hadn’t realized that this sort of happiness—deep, certain, all-encompassing—was possible before now. And seeing the warm glow of morning illuminate Laurent’s face as they approached their shared future together, he never felt happier to occupy the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Gerome rehearse his confession in the mirror immediately after writing it while Virion stood off to the side, giving him a thumbs up? Did Cherche return from her errands to find her husband and son being hopeless romantics and just sigh with a smile and a shake of her head? Did Cherche also voice her support for Gerome’s crush on Laurent and did Gerome start crying for the second time in the same day? I’m not saying it happened like that, but I’m also not not saying it. 
> 
> But yeah, I wanted to explore a fic in which Gerome took every preparation for a love confession and fucking nailed it because I love that for him (& Laurent who deserves to be wooed with poetic words).
> 
> I don’t actively ship Virion/Cherche but I really love Virion as Gerome’s father after watching their parent-child supports (especially the future past ones wow). I wanted to explore their dynamic in this fic, and having Virion help him talk about his feelings just…kind of happened in the writing process. happy accidents.
> 
> I am thinking about posting another fic in this series that explores their established relationship & shared life in Wyvern Valley. Gerome certainly has lasting mental trauma from all the repetitions in the time loop and I would love to address that with the care it deserves in a supplemental fic. I thought about diving into it more with this work but this fic is already over twice as long as originally planned, and I didn’t want it to drag on. So yeah, I hope to write a follow up fic to address some leftover loose ends, including the emotional impact of war (and also established relationship gerolau bc I love that shit).
> 
> This is the longest fic I’ve ever written & finished so I’m gonna go lay down immediately after posting this bye <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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